'What a pity he should have to go!' he exclaimed, his reverie broken by the click of the lock, adding, as he pushed the gate open, 'But it was I who advised him to accept the invitation, and who got him dressed for to-night.' He had, indeed, taken René to his tailor, his hosier, his bootmaker, and even his hatter, in order to proceed to what he jestingly called his investiture. 'The dangers of contact with the world ought to have been thought of before. . . . But how foolish of me to meet troubles half way! He will be presented to four or five women, he will be invited to dinner two or three times, he will forget to call again, he will forget--and he will be forgotten.' By this time he was half way down the passage, and had knocked at the first door on the right before coming to the porter's lodge, which it was not necessary to pass. His knock was answered by a big fat maid of about thirty, with a short waist, square shoulders, and a great round face surmounted by a huge Auvergne cap and lit up by two brown eyes betraying animal simplicity. Instinctive distrust was expressed not only in the woman's physiognomy, but also by the manner in which she held the door instead of opening it wide, and by the way she blinked her eyes as she raised the lamp to throw the light upon the visitor's features. On recognising Claude her big face expressed a degree of satisfaction that told plainly how welcome the writer was in the Fresneau household. 'Good evening, Françoise,' said the young man; 'is your master ready?' 'Oh!--it's Monsieur Larcher,' exclaimed the maid, with a joyful smile, showing all her sharp little white teeth, of which she had lost one on each side of the top row. 'He is quite ready,' she added, 'and looks like an angel. You will find _la compagnie_ in the dining-room. Let me take your coat for you . . . Saints preserve us! My dear gentleman, what a weight this must be on your back!'