Madame Descoings had lost her head; and in Agathe's heart was eternal mourning.
The two rose late on Christmas morning.

Ten o'clock had struck before Madame Descoings began to bestir herself about the breakfast, which was only ready at half-past eleven.

At that hour, the oblong frames containing the winning numbers are hung over the doors of the lottery-offices.

If Madame Descoings had paid her stake and held her ticket, she would have gone by half-past nine o'clock to learn her fate at a building close to the ministry of Finance, in the rue Neuve-des-Petits Champs, a situation now occupied by the Theatre Ventadour in the place of the same name.

On the days when the drawings took place, an observer might watch with curiosity the crowd of old women, cooks, and old men assembled about the door of this building; a sight as remarkable as the cue of people about the Treasury on the days when the dividends are paid.
"Well, here you are, rolling in wealth!" said old Desroches, coming into the room just as the Descoings was swallowing her last drop of coffee.
"What do you mean ?" cried poor Agathe.
"Her trey has turned up," he said, producing the list of numbers written on a bit of paper, such as the officials of the lottery put by hundreds into little wooden bowls on their counters.
Joseph read the list.