"No, Monsieur Xavier."
"Why, yes . . . whym yes . . . Anthime Fumeau?'
"I assure you that I do not."
"A fat fellow, very young, very red-faced, ultra-stylish, the finest teams in Paris. Fumeau an income of three millions. Tartlet the Kid? Why, yes, you know him."
"But I tell you that I do not know him."
"You astonish me! Why, everybody knows him. Don't you know the Fumeau biscuit? The young fellow who had a judicial adviser appointed for him two months ago? Don't you remember?"
"Not at all, I swear to you, Monsieur Xavier."
"Never mind, little turkey. Well, I played a good one on Fumeau last year,—a very good one. Guess what? You do not guess?"
"How do you expect me to guess, since I do not know him?"
"Well, it was this, my little baby. I introduced Fumeau to my mother. Upon my word! What do you think of that for a discovery? And the funniest part of it is that in two months mamma succeeded in blackmailing Fumeau to the tune of three hundred thousand bones. What a godsend that, for papa's works! Oh! they know a thing or two; they are up to snuff! But for that, the house would have gone up. We were over head and ears in debt. The priests themselves were refusing to
