The little Auvergnat looked at Mademoiselle Arthémise, who was a strapping, red-faced wench of about thirty, with stray hairs on her chin and upper lip that made her look like a man disguised as a woman.
"Be you Mademoiselle Georgette?" he asked.
"Mademoiselle Georgette!" replied the stout servant, with a savage glare. "Yes, yes, that's me."
"And you live in the entresol yonder?"
"Yes, yes, it's me, I tell you! Did Monsieur Renardin send you to bring that box to Mademoiselle Georgette, on the entresol?"
"Yes; it's from your neighbor, with all his compliments, mademoiselle."
"Ah! we'll just look and see what he sends to that hussy!"
And Mademoiselle Arthémise seized the box and was beginning to tear off the wrapper, when the concierge called to her:
"I beg your pardon, mademoiselle; you take that box when you know perfectly well it isn't for you."
"What business is it of yours? What do you want to meddle in it for, you low-lived porter? Does the shirtmaker pay you to look after her lovers' presents?"