"I," said a man, "asked him ten times if Mademoiselle Crémailly had come back from the country; he finally said yes, so I went up to the fourth floor—and when one's lame, it isn't pleasant to go up four flights of stairs—and I found nobody but the cook, breakfasting with a soldier. Very pretty, on my word! I'll let Mademoiselle Crémailly know about it."
"I was breakfasting with my cousin, monsieur; that ain't a crime. He was on duty last night at the Opéra, and he looked in this morning to say good-day; where's the harm? I asked him to breakfast with me—just a boiled egg—there's no need of making a long story out of that. You can tell Mademoiselle Crémailly if you want to. I'm not afraid of her discharging me for such a little thing as that. This concierge hasn't got two sous' worth of common sense, to tell you mademoiselle had come back from the country, when she's going to be there at least two weeks longer! He must have had too much white wine this morning."
A lady enveloped in a simple peignoir cried even louder than the others:
"You are a miserable villain, concierge! You will be the cause of a duel. Moncornu found Hippolyte in my room. To be sure, Hippolyte was doing nothing wrong there; he had taken off his overcoat, it is true, but only so that he could light my fire better. Every day a man takes off his overcoat to kindle a lady's fire. That's the way the most harmless actions are twisted into crimes in a jealous rival's eyes. Moncornu rushed upon Hippolyte, using language which I will not repeat. Hippolyte is not the man to allow himself to be insulted without replying. I tried in vain to pacify them. From words they came to threats, and finally they went out to fight. O God! if Hippolyte is killed, I shall not survive him! If Moncornu is the one, I shall never be consoled; still I would rather it should be Moncornu than Hippolyte.—You horrid brute of a concierge, you are the cause of all this! Your orders were to say: 'Madame is at the bath,' as usual, and you said: 'She's there, she's there!' You're a blockhead, a donkey! you never were fit to keep a door!"
All these clamors and upbraidings assailed Chamoureau's ears without inducing him to turn his head; on the contrary, he slunk down still deeper into his chair and tried to show nothing but his cap. But the obstinate silence of the person whom they all supposed to be the concierge simply intensified the general indignation. They shouted at him:
"What have you to say to all this?"
"Come, speak!"
"Tell us why you did it."
"You see, he won't say a word!"
"Monsieur doesn't even condescend to answer us."