Before leaving the door finally, and as if some doubt still remained in his mind, la Peyrade made a last and most thundering assault upon it.
“Who’s knocking like that, as if they’d bring the house down?” said the porter, attracted by the noise to the foot of the staircase.
“Doesn’t Madame de Godollo still live here?” asked la Peyrade.
“Of course she doesn’t live here now; she has moved away. If monsieur had told me he was going to her apartment I would have spared him the trouble of battering down the door.”
“I knew that she was going to leave the apartment,” said la Peyrade, not wishing to seem ignorant of the project of departure, “but I had no idea she was going so soon.”
“I suppose it was something sudden,” said the porter, “for she went off early this morning with post-horses.”
“Post-horses!” echoed la Peyrade, stupefied. “Then she has left Paris?”
“That’s to be supposed,” said the porter; “people don’t usually take post-horses and a postilion to change from one quarter of Paris to another.”
“And she did not tell you where she was going?”
“Ah! monsieur, what an idea! Do people account to us porters for what they do?”