“Yes, there is a little closet in the roof—just over the two rooms of the mysterious old fellow,” said Mother Arsene.
“Oh, yes! Father Charlemagne. Have you found out anything more about him?”
“Dear me, no, my girl! only that he came this morning at break of day, and knocked at my shutters. ‘Have you received a letter for me, my good lady?’ said he—for he is always so polite, the dear man!—‘No, sir,’ said I.’—‘Well, then, pray don’t disturb yourself, my good lady!’ said he; ‘I will call again.’ And so he went away.”
“Does he never sleep in the house?”
“Never. No doubt, he lodges somewhere else—but he passes some hours here, once every four or five days.”
“And always comes alone?”
“Always.”
“Are you quite sure? Does he never manage to slip in some little puss of a woman? Take care, or Philemon will give you notice to quit,” said Rose-Pompon, with an air of mock-modesty.
“M. Charlemagne with a woman! Oh, poor dear man!” said the greengrocer, raising her hands to heaven; “if you saw him, with his greasy hat, his old gray coat, his patched umbrella, and his simple face, he looks more like a saint than anything else.”
“But then, Mother Arsene, what does the saint do here, all alone for hours, in that hole at the bottom of the court, where one can hardly see at noon-day?”