"Be good enough, Mme. Vauberger," said the concierge, "not to trouble me with your Maxime. Did I ruin your Maxime? Then what are you talking to me about? If he kills himself, they'll bury him, won't they?"
"I tell you, Vauberger," his wife answered, "it would have made your heart bleed to see him drain his water-bottle. And if I believed you meant what you say in that offhand manner—just like an actor—'If he kills himself, they'll bury him!' I would—— But I know you don't, because you're a good sort, although you don't like being upset. Fancy being without fire or bread! And that after being fed on dainties all your life, and wrapped up in furs like a little pet cat. It's a shame and a disgrace. A nice sort of government yours is to allow such things!"
"But it has nothing to do with the government," said M. Vauberger, reasonably enough. "And I'm sure you're wrong; it's not so bad as all that. He can't be wanting bread; it's impossible."
"All right, Vauberger. I've more to tell you. I've followed him. I've watched him, and made Edouard watch him, too. Yes, I have. I'm certain he had no dinner yesterday, and no breakfast to-day; and as I've searched his pockets and all the drawers, and not found so much as a red cent, you may be sure he hasn't had any dinner to-day, for he's much too high and mighty to go and beg one."
"Oh, is he? So much the worse for him. Poor people shouldn't be proud," said the worthy concierge, true to the sentiments of his calling.
I had had enough of this dialogue, and put an end to it abruptly by opening the door and asking M. Vauberger for a light. I could not have astounded him more if I had asked for his head. Though I particularly wished not to give way before these people, I could not help stumbling once or twice as I went up the stairs. My head was swimming. Usually my room was as cold as ice. Imagine my surprise at finding a bright, cheerful fire, which sent a pleasant warmth through the room. I wasn't stoic enough to put it out, and I blessed the kind hearts there are in the world. I stretched myself out in an old arm-chair of Utrecht velvet, which, like myself, had been brought by reverses from the first floor to the garret. I tried to sleep. For half an hour I had been dreaming in a kind of torpor of sumptuous banquets and merry junketings, when the noise of the door opening made me jump up with a start. I thought I was dreaming still when Mme. Vauberger came in, carrying a big tray with two or three savoury dishes steaming on it. Before I could shake off my lethargy she had put the tray down and had begun to lay the cloth. At last I started up hastily.
"Well," I said, "what does this mean? What are you doing?"
Mme. Vauberger pretended to be greatly surprised.
"I thought you ordered dinner, sir?"
"Oh, no."