The Seven Cardinal Sins: Envy and Indolence Part 72

"I hope you will not be surprised at the questions I put to you, but I have such a horror of a noise over my head, and of bad company, that I should like to be sure that my future neighbour is not boisterous like so many young men, and that his acquaintances are not such persons as it would be disagreeable for me to meet on the stairways as I go and come."

"M. Michel Renaud have any such company as that! Oh, no, madame; oh, no!" exclaimed the concierge, indignantly.

An expression of hope and joy irradiated the lady's sad face for an instant, and she replied, with a smile:

"I had no intention of maligning the gentleman, and the evident astonishment my question causes you is very rea.s.suring."

"M. Renaud is one of the steadiest of men. Every day of the world--Sundays and holidays as well--he leaves his rooms at half-past three or four o'clock in the morning at the very latest, and never returns until midnight, so he has no visitors."

"They would certainly have to be remarkably early ones, in that case,"

remarked the young woman, who seemed to take a deep interest in these details. "But does the gentleman leave as early as that every morning?"

"Yes, madame, in winter as well as summer. Nothing keeps him."

"But what business does the gentleman follow that it is necessary for him to leave home by four o'clock in the morning, and remain away until midnight?"

"That is more than I know, madame; but this much is certain, this tenant is not likely to annoy you in any way."

"I believe I could not find a house that would suit me better, judging from what you say. But is it really true that you have no idea what business your tenant follows?"

"How should I know, madame? During the three years that M. Renaud has lived here he has received only one letter. That was merely addressed to M. Michel Renaud, and no living soul ever comes to see him."

"But he is not dumb, I suppose?"

"He might almost as well be. When he goes out in the morning, I am in bed; when he returns, it is just the same. In the morning, he says, 'The door, please;' in the evening, when he takes his candle, 'Good night, M.

Landre' (that is my name). That is the extent of our conversation."

"But doesn't he keep a servant?"

"No, madame, he does all his own housework. That is to say, he makes his own bed, blacks his shoes, brushes his clothes, and sweeps his room."

"He!" exclaimed the young woman, in accents of the most profound astonishment.

Then bethinking herself, she added:

"It seems so strange that a gentleman should do all those things for himself."

"Oh, I don't know," replied the concierge, who seemed surprised at the lady's evident astonishment; "everybody hasn't an income of fifty thousand francs a year, and when one hasn't the money to pay a servant, one must serve oneself."

"That is very true, monsieur."

"And now would madame like to see the third floor?"

"Yes, for, after all, I think it would be difficult for me to find a house that would suit me better."

CHAPTER VIII.

ANOTHER SEARCH.

As the prospective tenant began her ascent, close upon the heels of the concierge, another rather peculiar scene was occurring in the adjoining house, the lower floor of which was used as a cafe.

This establishment, which was not very extensively patronised at any time, could now boast of but a single guest. He was seated at a table, on which stood a carafe of water, a bowl of sugar, and a gla.s.s of absinthe.

This patron, who had entered the cafe only a few minutes before, was a slender, nervous, sunburnt man about thirty years of age. He had strongly marked features, and was exceedingly quick in his movements. He picked up several newspapers in swift succession, and pretended to glance over them as he smoked his cigar, but his mind was evidently not upon what he was reading, that is, if he was reading at all, and at last, flinging the journal violently down upon the table, he called the waiter in a curt, peremptory tone.

The waiter, a gray-haired man, hastened to respond to the summons.

"Bring me a gla.s.s of absinthe, waiter," said the man with the cigar.

"But your gla.s.s is still full, monsieur."

"True."

The man drained the gla.s.s, and the waiter refilled it.

"Would you like to make a hundred sous?" asked the man with the cigar.

And seeing the waiter gaze at him in astonishment, he repeated, in an even more brusque fas.h.i.+on:

"I ask you if you want to make a hundred sous?"

"But, monsieur--"

"Do you or do you not? Answer me."

"I should like to very much, but what am I to do, monsieur?"

"Answer the questions I am going to put to you. Have you been here long?"

"Ever since the cafe opened, about ten years ago."

"Do you live here in the house?"

"Yes, monsieur. I have a room in the fifth story."

"Do you know all the inmates of the house?"

"Either by name, or by sight, yes, monsieur, but that is all. I am the only waiter here, and I have no time to visit."

After a moment of painful hesitation, during which the stranger's features betrayed the most poignant anxiety, he said to the waiter, in a slightly husky voice:

"Who lives on the fourth floor?"

"A lady, monsieur."