Unhappily，Josephdidnotknowthewaytoanyofthelottery-offices，whichinthosedayswereaswellknowntomostpeopleasthecigarshopstoasmokerinours。Thepainterranalong，readingthestreetnamesuponthelamps。Whenheaskedthepassers-bytoshowhimalottery-office，hewastoldtheywereallclosed，excepttheoneundertheporticoofthePalais-Royalwhichwassometimeskeptopenalittlelater。HeflewtothePalais-Royal:theofficewasshut。
“Twominutesearlier，andyoumighthavepaidyourstake，“saidoneofthevendorsoftickets，whosebeatwasundertheportico，wherehevociferatedthissingularcry:“Twelvehundredfrancsforfortysous，“
andofferedticketsallpaidup。
BytheglimmerofthestreetlampandthelightsofthecafedelaRotonde，Josephexaminedtheseticketstoseeif，bychance，anyofthemboretheDescoings’snumbers。Hefoundnone，andreturnedhomegrievedathavingdonehisbestinvainfortheoldwoman，towhomherelatedhisill-luck。AgatheandherauntwenttogethertothemidnightmassatSaint-Germain-des-Pres。Josephwenttobed。Thecollationdidnottakeplace。MadameDescoingshadlostherhead；andinAgathe’sheartwaseternalmourning。
ThetworoselateonChristmasmorning。Teno’clockhadstruckbeforeMadameDescoingsbegantobestirherselfaboutthebreakfast，whichwasonlyreadyathalf-pasteleven。Atthathour，theoblongframescontainingthewinningnumbersarehungoverthedoorsofthelottery-