As he spoke thus to the lady's maid, the visitor twirled in his hand a stout blackthorn stick, which he handled with the dexterity of a drum-major.
"What do you want, monsieur? You have probably made a mistake; I am very sure that it wasn't our door that the concierge pointed out to you."
While speaking, the maid held the door only half open, as if to prevent the man from entering. But he replied with a smile peculiar to himself, which made his face even more repulsive:
"No, no! I ain't mistaken in the door, larbine! otherwise called servant! This is the place where Madame Sainte-Suzanne lives, isn't it?"
"Yes, this is the place."
"Well, then! don't make so much fuss and feathers! Madame Sainte-Suzanne is the one I want to speak to."
"You, monsieur?"
"Yes, me! What in the devil's the matter with the girl that she makes eyes at me like a cat that's been taking physic!"
"What can you have to say to my mistress?"
"What have I to say to her? Look you, my love, that don't concern anybody but her and me, and I won't let my words fly till we are together in the closest possible confinement, as the president of the criminal court says."