On beholding him, Madame Barbançon knit her brows, and, evidently not very deeply impressed by the dignity of this citizen soldier, asked, in a decidedly sharp tone:
"What, you here again?"
"It would be very strange if an owner"—the word owner was uttered with the majestic air of a ruling sovereign—"if an owner could not come into his own house, when—"
"You are not in your own house, for you have rented it to the commander."
"This is the seventeenth of the month, and my porter has sent me a printed notice that my rent has not been paid, so I—"
"We all know that. This is the third time in the last two days that you have been here to dun us. Do you expect us to give you our last cent for the rent? We'll pay you when we can, and that is all there is about it."
"When you can? A house owner is not to be paid in promises."
"House owner! You can boast of being a house owner only because for the last twenty years you've been putting pepper in your brandy and chicory in your coffee, as well as dipping your candles in boiling water to melt off the tallow without anybody's discovering it, and with the proceeds of this cheating you've perhaps bought a few houses. I don't see anything to be so proud of in that, do you?"
"I have been a grocer, it is true. It is also true that I made money in my business, and I am proud of the fact, madame."
"You have no reason to be. Besides, if you are rich, how can you have the heart to torment a worthy man like the commander merely because he is a little behind in his rent—for the first time, too, in over three years."