"The fourth floor—that’s rather high," said Robineau to himself. "To be sure, the staircase is very clean and very pleasant. But a poet—there’s no law compelling them to be rich. And yet I have heard Alfred say that Edouard was in comfortable circumstances, that he had about four thousand francs a year. That used to seem a fortune to me."
On reaching the fourth floor Robineau rang once, twice; no answer. Not discouraged, he rang a third time, and at last heard Edouard’s voice, calling:
"Who’s there?"
"It’s I—Jules—you know. I have come to ask you to breakfast. Let me in."
"Oh! I beg a thousand pardons, Monsieur Robineau, but I worked far into the night, and I should like to sleep a little longer. Au revoir."
He walked away from the door, and Robineau stood on the landing for some moments.
"What in the devil have all these people eaten," he said to himself, "that they’re so anxious to sleep? it’s a most extraordinary thing!"
He went downstairs and looked at his watch; it was about half-past seven, and it occurred to him that his cabriolet should be waiting for him. So he returned to Rue Saint-Honoré and uttered a cry of joy when he saw in the distance the carriage standing at his door. He quickened his pace and discovered Fifine and the other young milliners standing in the doorway of the shop. He marched proudly by them and jumped into the cabriolet amid shouts of laughter from the young ladies, saying to himself:
"They laugh at me! Very good! I will try to splash them."
He drove about for an hour through the streets of Paris, then returned to his notary’s office. That gentleman, who was already tired of seeing him four times a day, and who did not care to be roused from sleep by him often, concluded that he had better find an estate for him in short order, as the best way to be rid of him. And so, as soon as he saw him, he said: