Just as Hulot was going into the opera-house, he was stopped by the darkened appearance of the building and of the Rue le Peletier, where there were no gendarmes, no lights, no theatre-servants, no barrier to regulate the crowd. He looked up at the announcement-board, and beheld a strip of white paper, on which was printed the solemn notice:
"CLOSED ON ACCOUNT OF ILLNESS."
He rushed off to Josepha's lodgings in the Rue Chauchat; for, like all the singers, she lived close at hand.
"Whom do you want, sir?" asked the porter, to the Baron's great astonishment.
"Have you forgotten me?" said Hulot, much puzzled.
"On the contrary, sir, it is because I have the honor to remember you that I ask you, Where are you going?"
A mortal chill fell upon the Baron.
"What has happened?" he asked.
"If you go up to Mademoiselle Mirah's rooms, Monsieur le Baron, you will find Mademoiselle Heloise Brisetout there—and Monsieur Bixiou, Monsieur Leon de Lora, Monsieur Lousteau, Monsieur de Vernisset, Monsieur Stidmann; and ladies smelling of patchouli—holding a housewarming."
"Then, where—where is——?"