The speaker was a man of about thirty, very carelessly dressed, whose hat was dented in several places; his face was prematurely old and bloated, his manner was vulgar and impertinent, he was saturated with tobacco, and seemed to be slightly tipsy.
"Where are you going, monsieur?" the concierge called to him as he passed through the porte cochère and started for the staircase, while Adhémar, who was on the point of calling him to account for the discourteous way in which he had pushed him aside, waited to hear his reply.
"Where am I going? Sacrebleu! you know well enough; this ain't the first time I've been here! I'm going up to my sister's—Madame Dermont."
"Madame Dermont is out, monsieur."
"You always say the same thing; and you know that I go up, all the same."
"I have been expressly forbidden to let you go up, monsieur, and this time you shan't go!"
"I shan't go up! is that all, old dormouse? Just think of that! Madame Dermont won't receive me! But I am Alexandre Dermont, her husband's brother, and she has no right to close her door to me; and I'm going up, all the same, and you can go hang, concierge! And my sister-in-law will have to receive me, because—because——"
Monsieur Alexandre did not finish his sentence, because someone stood before him, barring his passage, and forced him back, looking him steadily in the eye.
"Well, well!" he muttered; "what does this fellow want?—Let me pass, I say!"
"I want you—yes, you, Monsieur Alexandre Dermont."