"Hold your tongue, you brute! I am robbed, that's what I am! Fetch the concierge; I must speak to him."
"He has something for you from Mamzelle Georgette, monsieur; for he said to me: 'Is your master awake? I've got something to give him in person from this young woman, who gave me the parcel before she went away.'"
"And you didn't tell me that, you idiot! Go, run, and tell him to come up instantly!"
"Hark! monsieur, someone's ringing; that must be him. I'll go and let him in."
The old beau was still wavering between hope and fear.
"This package—why, she must have returned me my banknotes," he thought. "She has probably reflected, and concluded to remain virtuous. If that's how it is, I must make the best of it."
The concierge entered his tenant's apartment, bringing a rather large parcel, carefully wrapped in paper; he carried it on his outstretched arms, as if he were delivering the keys of a city on a salver, and handed it to Monsieur de Mardeille, who looked at it, scrutinized it, and at once said to himself:
"I didn't give her enough banknotes to make so large a parcel as this!"
"This is what the young woman on the entresol told me to give you, monsieur, when she went away."
"Went away! But why did you let the girl go away? Did you give her notice to quit?"