The fat concierge preserved still her burst and overripe appearance, and at the sight of him she was so moved that she rose from her chair and stood upright to voice her lamentations.
"Monsieur, what can I say? He is gone! It was a nightmare. It is true that he omitted to pay his rent—a defect of his temperament, without doubt. But the proprietor does not make these distinctions. After three weeks he would expel Michelangelo himself. The monsieur who was driven out—he resisted. He employed blasphemies, maledictions; he smote my poor husband on the nose and in the stomach—all to no purpose, for he is gone. I was overcome with grief, but what could I do?"
"At least you know whither he went?" suggested Rufin.
"But, M'sieur, how should I know? His furniture—it was not much—was impounded for the rent, else one might have followed it. He took away with him only one picture, and that by force of threats and assaults."
"Oh yes, of course he would take that," agreed the artist.
"He retired down the street with it, walking backward in the middle of the road and not ceasing to make outcries at us," said the concierge. "He uttered menaces; he was dangerous. Could I leave my poor husband to imperil myself by following such a one? I ask M'sieur could I?"
"I suppose not," said Rufin, staring at her absently. He was thinking, by an odd momentary turn of fancy, how well he could have spared this gruesome woman for another look at the picture.
"Who are his friends?" he inquired.
But the concierge could tell him nothing useful.
"He had no friends in the house," she said. "Our poor honest people— he treated them with contumely. I do not know his friends, M'sieur."