"On my word! this is too much!—How is this, concierge? don't you recognize me—Chamoureau?"
The concierge was stupefied; he could not believe his eyes and his ears; he could not conceive that that sedate and orderly tenant, who always wept when his wife was mentioned, could come home at ten o'clock in the morning, dressed as a Spaniard.
But Chamoureau left him to digest his amazement and hurried upstairs. The servant, who had not recognized her master, had just left the window, saying:
"It's a masker coming home from the ball! The deuce! he has made a night of it and no mistake! this is none too early to come home!"
"Do you mean to say that balls last till the next forenoon?" asked the countryman.
"No, monsieur, they end at daybreak, but after that the maskers go to supper and raise the deuce at wine-shops; three-quarters of 'em get tight and don't go home till they haven't got another sou to spend, like this fellow who's just come into the house, I suppose. I'd like to know who he is. He must be a regular loose fish, to come home from the ball after ten o'clock in the morning. I'll ask the concierge who he is."
The bell rang and the woman ran to open the door.
"This time it's monsieur, sure!" she said.
But seeing before her a man in fancy costume, she was about to prevent his entrance, as the concierge had done. But Chamoureau pushed her aside with some force.
"Are you going to make a fool of yourself like the concierge?" he cried, "Sapristi! here I am at home at last! thank God for that!"