I declined the invitation; he insisted on my coming in; I still held back; he pressed me with so much eagerness, with such an air of real disappointment, such expressions of deep regret—for he had the art of expressing himself very forcibly—asking me in the tone of one who felt wounded "whether I objected to have a drink with a man like him," that I finally gave way and followed him up a lonely road towards one of those big dilapidated houses which are to be found on the outskirts of suburbs.
In front of this dwelling I hesitated. This high barrack of plaster looked like a den for vagabonds, a hiding-place for suburban brigands. But he pushed forward a door which had not been locked, and made me go in before him. He led me forward by the shoulders, through profound darkness, towards a staircase where I had to feel my way with my hands and feet, with a well-grounded apprehension of tumbling into some gaping cellar.
When I had reached the first landing, he said to me: "Go on up! 'Tis the sixth story."
I searched my pockets, and, finding there a box of vestas, I lighted the way up the ascent. He followed me, puffing under his pack, repeating:
"Tis high! 'tis high!"
When we were at the top of the house, he drew forth from one of his inside pockets a key attached to a thread, and unlocking his door he made me enter.
It was a little whitewashed room, with a table in the center, six chairs, and a kitchen-cupboard close to the wall.
"I am going to wake up my wife," he said; "then I am going down to the cellar to fetch some wine; it doesn't keep here."
He approached one of the two doors which opened out of this apartment, and exclaimed:
"Bluette! Bluette!" Bluette did not reply. He called out in a louder tone: "Bluette! Bluette!"