"What a change my wife will see in me when I go back to Brives-la-Gaillarde! All I'm afraid of is that there the desire to sleep will return."
His wound being healed, Dupont was able to get rid of all the bandages in which his head was swathed. He made haste to leave the house, crossed the street to the house in which the girl with the striped skirt lived, and entered the concierge's lodge. In Paris, the porters have all become concierges; just as the shops have become magasins; the wine shops, maisons de commerce; the hair dressers' establishments, salons where one is rejuvenated; the groceries, dépôts for colonial produce; the bakers, pastry cooks; the marchands de confection, tailors; the book shops, cabinets de lecture; the cafés, restaurants; soup houses, traiteurs; indeed, even those gentry who haul refuse at night have assumed the title of employés à la poudrette.
Dupont accosted the concierge most affably, and slipped his irresistible argument into the hand of that functionary, who, happening to be a woman, asked nothing better than to talk, and instantly laid aside her one-sou illustrated paper, and answered without stopping for breath:
"The girl who lives on the third, second door at the left, is named Georgette; she embroiders for a living, and she has lots of talent; she embroiders like a fairy, so they say! She's twenty years old, I believe, and she hasn't been in Paris long. She's a Lorrainer, and she's full of fun, always ready to talk; and yet I think she's straight. Still, I wouldn't put my hand in the fire to prove it! it's never safe to put your hand in the fire about such things; you'd get burned too often! But I don't see any men go up to Mademoiselle Georgette's. Does she meet any of 'em outside? That's something I can't tell you. You see, when that girl goes out, I don't follow her. But she leads a regular life all the same, and never goes to balls, although I don't think it's the wish to go that's lacking, for I've heard her say more'n once: 'How lucky people are who can afford to enjoy themselves! When shall I have twenty thousand francs a year?'—But, although she hasn't got it, that don't seem to make her sad; for she sings all the time. That's all I can tell you about her, seeing that it's all I know."
"Twenty thousand francs a year!" muttered Dupont, scratching his head. "The devil! it's not I who'll give it to her!—So she embroiders, you say?" he continued.
"Yes, monsieur."
"What?"
"What do you mean by what?"
"I mean, what does she embroider?"
"Oh! collars, handkerchiefs, caps, whatever anyone wants her to embroider."