I congratulated myself on the perfect tranquillity that I enjoyed in my house; I realized that Raymond was no longer my neighbor. I should have been glad to find him, however; but I searched Paris for him in vain; he must have left the city.
Apropos of neighbors, I began to wonder who lived on my landing. I had never seen anybody go in or out; it was clearly some person of very sedentary habits. I was not curious; still, one likes to know who lives so near one. Madame Dupont would tell me.
My concierge continued to do my housework; when she came one morning as usual, she was delighted to find me inclined to converse a little.
“I believe you told me, Madame Dupont, that the rooms Monsieur Raymond used to occupy are let?”
“Certainly they are, monsieur; they weren’t vacant a week; somebody hired ’em right away.”
“I never happen to see a living soul go in or out; I never hear a sound.”
“Oh! the tenant’s a very quiet party, never goes out, never has any callers; it’s all right, but I don’t believe she has a very exciting time.”
“It’s a woman, is it?”
“Yes, monsieur—and as to respectability and morals—oh! there’s nothing to be said.”
“Is she an old woman?”