Hausheer's character was of little consequence to me; he might be the greatest blackleg in Paris; I only cared to know that he was clever, and I hoped to learn from him a good deal that would be useful.
I thanked my old friend for his information, and decided to call on M. Hausheer the following morning about ten o'clock.
I was at this time only known as a mechanician, and I feared that my being so, would hardly procure me an introduction to the great man.
An idea just then crossed my brain; I had recently invented a little mechanical bird, which sang and hopped about on the top of a snuff-box. I thought that perhaps this work of art, a very valuable one, by-the-bye, would serve my purpose, and I took it with me.
Feeling more confidence in the result of my visit, I directed my steps towards the Rue de l'Écu d'Or, where the great man in question resided. I say great man, not in a spirit of irony, but because, in my monomania, my imagination pictured M. Hausheer as having a large fortune, and all other advantages in keeping with his wonderful talents.
I did not know the Rue de l'Écu d'Or at all. I was much surprised, on arriving there, at its miserable and poverty-stricken appearance, but without stopping to reflect on this first disenchantment, I walked on until I came to No. 8, which was the address mentioned on the card I held in my hand.
A long, straight alley, damp and dirty, served as an entrance to the house. I entered it resolutely.
"Does M. Hausheer live here?" I asked, rapping on one of the dingy-looking panes of a sort of glass-box, over which the word "Porter," was written.
A man with a grey beard, cut to a peak, like a well-pointed pencil, with a bootjack in one hand, and a boot in the other, opened one of the panes, and with a strong German accent, asked me what I wanted.
"M. Hausheer," I replied.