The porter had hold of the madman by his shoulders. Valérie told the driver the address. But he, a fat and filthy looking man, with a face the color of bullock’s blood, and still drunk from the night before, did not hurry himself, but took his time to gather up the reins and make himself comfortable on the box.
“By distance, governor?” asked he, in a hoarse voice.
“No, by the hour, and quickly please. There will be something handsome for yourself.”
In the Rue d’Enghein, he met with another vexation. To begin with, the commission agent’s doorway was so blocked up with vans that he almost got crushed; then he found himself in the courtyard with the glass roof, amidst a crowd of packers all violently nailing up cases, and not one of whom could tell him where Bachelard was. The hammering seemed to split his skull. He was, however, making up his mind to wait for the uncle, when an apprentice, pitying his suffering look, came and whispered an address in his ear: Mademoiselle Fifi, Rue Saint-Marc, third floor. Old Bachelard was most likely there.
“Where do you say?” asked the driver, who had fallen asleep.
“Rue Saint-Marc, and a little faster, if it’s possible.”
The cab resumed its funereal crawl. On the boulevards, the wheel caught in an omnibus. The panels cracked, the springs uttered plaintive cries, a gloomy melancholy more and more overcame the husband in his search of his second. However, they at last reached the Rue Saint-Marc.
On the third floor, the door was opened by a little old woman, plump and white. She seemed suffering from some strong emotion, and she admitted Auguste directly he asked for Monsieur Bachelard.
“Ah! sir, you are one of his friends, surely. Pray try to calm him. Something happened to vex him a little while ago, the poor dear man. You know me, no doubt, he must have spoken to you of me: I am Mademoiselle Menu.”
Auguste, feeling quite scared, found himself in a narrow room overlooking the courtyard, and as clean and peaceful as a country home. One could almost detect the odor of order and work, the purity of the happy existence of people in a quiet way. Seated before an embroidery frame, on which a priest’s stole was stretched, a fair young girl, pretty and having a candid air, was weeping bitterly; whilst uncle Bachelard, standing up, his nose inflamed, his eyes bloodshot, was driveling with rage and despair. He was so upset that Auguste’s entry did not appear to surprise him in the least. He immediately called upon him to bear witness, and the scene continued.