The milord containing our widower had stopped in front of the house, and before he had had time to alight, a crowd had collected round the cab, because its occupant was in plain sight.
Shouts of "à la chienlit!" went up on all sides. The concierge stood in his doorway, looking on with the rest. Chamoureau, having paid his driver, could hardly force his way through the crowd, which yelled at him:
"Oh! you Spaniard!"
"Just look at him! ain't he dazzling with his spangles!"
"He's a Spaniard—he's a regular sun!"
"But he'll lose his boots; he's treading on 'em!"
At last, by dint of pushing this way and that, Chamoureau reached the door; he tried to enter in a hurry, but the concierge barred the way, saying with an air of importance:
"What do you want? where are you going?"
"What's that? where am I going? Why, to my rooms, parbleu!"
"You have evidently made a mistake; we don't let rooms to buffoons!"