He mounted the staircase, and rang his bell, forgetting that he had his latch-key in his pocket. His housekeeper opened the door.
“What, is it you, sir,” said she, “and at this hour!”
“What’s that you say?” asked the old fellow.
“I say,” replied the housekeeper, “that it is more than half-past eight o’clock. I thought you were not coming back this evening. Have you at least dined?”
“No, not yet.”
“Well, fortunately I have kept your dinner warm. You can sit down to it at once.”
Old Tabaret took his place at the table, and helped himself to soup, but mounting his hobby-horse again, he forgot to eat, and remained, his spoon in the air, as though suddenly struck by an idea.
“He is certainly touched in the head,” thought Manette, the housekeeper. “Look at that stupid expression. Who in his senses would lead the life he does?” She touched him on the shoulder, and bawled in his ear, as if he were deaf,—“You do not eat. Are you not hungry?”
“Yes, yes,” muttered he, trying mechanically to escape the voice that sounded in his ears, “I am very hungry, for since the morning I have been obliged—” He interrupted himself, remaining with his mouth open, his eyes fixed on vacancy.
“You were obliged—?” repeated Manette.