"Does General Verdier live here, please?"
"Fourth floor, small door on the left."
I made the concierge repeat it: I believed I must have misunderstood him.
Marshal Jourdan and General Sébastiani lived in sumptuous mansions, in the faubourg Saint-Germain and the faubourg Saint-Honoré; entrance was gained to these mansions by gates like those of Gaza. Why, then, should General Verdier live in the rue du faubourg Montmartre, on the fourth floor, and why did one gain access to him through a small doorway?
The concierge repeated his words: I had not misunderstood.
"Good gracious!" I said, as I climbed the staircase; "this does not look like Marshal Jourdan's lackeys, nor Marshal Sébastiani's Swiss guards. General Verdier, fourth floor, small door on the left, surely this is a man likely to remember my father!"
I reached the fourth floor; I discovered the small door; at this door hung a humble, modest, green string. I rang with an uncontrollable fluttering at my heart. This third trial was to decide my opinion of men. Steps approached, the door was opened. A man of about sixty opened the door; he wore a cap edged with astrakan, and was clothed in a green braided jacket and trousers of white calf-skin. He held in his hand a palette full of paints, and under his thumb, which held his palette, was a paint-brush. I looked at the other doors.
"I beg your pardon, monsieur," I said; "I am afraid I have made some mistake...."
"What is your pleasure, monsieur?" asked the man with the palette.