The concierge shook his head and finally succeeded in saying, "It was the other way around."
"Oh," said Durtal, considering the old caricature, shrivelled by bad air and "three-six," "but if she is tired of that sort of thing, why did she run off with a man?"
Rateau made a grimace of pitying contempt, "Oh, he's impotent. Good for nothing—"
"Ah!"
"It's my job I'm sore about. The landlord won't keep a concierge that hasn't a wife."
"Dear Lord," thought Durtal, "how hast thou answered my prayers!—Come on, let's go over to your place," he said to Des Hermies, who, finding Rateau's key in the door, had walked in.
"Righto! since your housecleaning isn't done yet, descend like a god from your clouds of dust, and come on over to the house."
On the way Durtal recounted his concierge's conjugal misadventure.
"Oh!" said Des Hermies, "many a woman would be happy to wreathe with laurel the occiput of so combustible a sexagenarian.—Look at that! Isn't it revolting?" pointing to the walls covered with posters.
It was a veritable debauch of placards. Everywhere on lurid coloured paper in box car letters were the names of Boulanger and Jacques.