"Is she a widow?"
"I don't know, monsieur. She calls herself Madame Luceval, that is all I can tell you."
"But you must understand that if I am to give you a hundred sous, I expect you to tell me something."
"One can tell only what one knows, monsieur."
"Of course, that is understood. But now answer me frankly. What do the people in the house think of this lady—this Madame—What did you call her?"
"Madame Luceval, monsieur. A person would have to be very spiteful to gossip about her, for nobody ever sees her."
"What?"
"She always goes out at four o'clock in the morning, summer and winter, and though I never get to bed before midnight, I always hear her come in after I do."
"Impossible!" exclaimed the man with the cigar, manifesting quite as much astonishment as the lady in mourning had done on hearing of M. Renaud's early hours. "The lady goes out at four o'clock every morning, you say?"
"Yes, monsieur. I hear her close her door."