“‘"Is Madame la Comtesse ill?”
“‘"No, sir, but she only came home at three o’clock this morning from a ball.”
“‘"My name is Gobseck, tell her that I shall call again at twelve o’clock,” and I went out, leaving traces of my muddy boots on the carpet which covered the paved staircase. I like to leave mud on a rich man’s carpet; it is not petty spite; I like to make them feel a touch of the claws of Necessity. In the Rue Montmartre I thrust open the old gateway of a poor-looking house, and looked into a dark courtyard where the sunlight never shines. The porter’s lodge was grimy, the window looked like the sleeve of some shabby wadded gown—greasy, dirty, and full of holes.
“‘"Mlle. Fanny Malvaut?”
“‘"She has gone out; but if you have come about a bill, the money is waiting for you.”
“‘"I will look in again,” said I.
“‘As soon as I knew that the porter had the money for me, I wanted to know what the girl was like; I pictured her as pretty. The rest of the morning I spent in looking at the prints in the shop windows along the boulevard; then, just as it struck twelve, I went through the Countess’ ante-chamber.
“‘"Madame has just this minute rung for me,” said the maid; “I don’t think she can see you yet.”
“‘"I will wait,” said I, and sat down in an easy-chair.
“‘Venetian shutters were opened, and presently the maid came hurrying back.