"You have, then, had a painter lodging with you, I presume?"
"Unhappily, sir, I did have one," replied M. Pipelet, with much bitterness, "and that one named Cabrion. Ah!"
At the recollections brought back by this name, the porter's declaration of courage and endurance utterly failed him, and again his clenched fists were raised, as though to invoke the vengeance he had so lately described himself as despising.
"And was this individual the last occupant of the chamber I am about engaging?" inquired Rodolph.
"No, no! The last lodger was an excellent young man named M. Germain. No, this Cabrion had the room before he came. Ah, sir, since Cabrion left, he has all but driven me stark staring mad!"
"Did you, then, so much regret him?" asked Rodolph.
"Regret him! Regret Cabrion!" screamed the astounded porter; "why, only imagine, M. Bras Rouge paid him two quarters' rent to induce him to quit the place, for, unluckily, he had taken his apartments for a term. What a scamp he was! You have no idea of the horrible tricks he played off upon all the lodgers as well as us. Why, just to give you one little proof of his villainy, there was hardly a single wind instrument he did not make use of as a sort of annoyance to the lodgers; from the French horn to the flageolet, he made use of all, and even carried his rascality so far as to play false and to keep blowing the same note for hours together; it was enough to worry one out of one's senses. Well, I suppose there were upwards of twenty different petitions sent to our chief lessee, M. Bras Rouge, to turn the beggar out; and, at last, he was only got rid of by paying him two quarters' rent,—rather droll, is it not, for a landlord to pay his lodger? But, bless you, the house was so upset by him that he might have had any price so he would but take himself off; however, he did go. And now you suppose we were clear of M. Cabrion? I'll tell you. Next night, about eleven o'clock, I was in bed, when rap, rap, rap, comes to the gate. I pulls up the string,—somebody walks up to my door, 'How do you do, porter?' says a voice; 'will you oblige me with a lock of your hair?' 'Somebody has mistaken the door,' says my wife. So I calls out to the stranger, 'You are wrong, friend, you want next door.' 'I think not,' returns the voice; 'this is No. 17, is it not, and the porter's name is Pipelet? I'm all right; so please to open the door and oblige me with a lock of your beautiful hair.' 'My name is Pipelet, certainly,' answers I. 'Well, then, friend Pipelet, Cabrion has sent me for a piece of your hair; he says he must and he will have it.'"
As Pipelet uttered the last words he gave his head a mournful shake, and, folding his arms, assumed an attitude of martyrlike resolution.
"Do you perceive, sir? He sends to me, his mortal enemy, whom he overwhelmed with insults and continually outraged in every way, to beg a lock of my hair,—a favour which even ladies have been known to refuse to a lover!"
"But, supposing this Cabrion had been as good a lodger as was M. Germain," replied Rodolph, with some difficulty preserving the gravity of countenance, "do you think you might have accorded him the favour?"