Mlle. Brisetout’s visit towards half-past ten that night seemed natural enough to La Cibot; but in her terror lest the ballet-girl should mention Gaudissart’s gift of a thousand francs, she went upstairs with her, lavishing polite speeches and flattery as if Mlle. Heloise had been a queen. “Ah! my dear, you are much nicer here on your own ground than at the theatre,” Heloise remarked. “I advise you to keep to your employment.” Heloise was splendidly dressed. Bixiou, her lover, had brought her in his carriage on the way to an evening party at Mariette’s. It so fell out that the first-floor lodger, M. Chapoulot, a retired braid manufacturer from the Rue Saint-Denis, returning from the Ambigu-Comique with his wife and daughter, was dazzled by a vision of such a costume and such a charming woman upon their staircase. “Who is that, Mme. Cibot?” asked Mme. Chapoulot. “A no-better-than-she-should-be, a light-skirts that you may see half-naked any evening for a couple of francs,” La Cibot answered in an undertone for Mme. Chapoulot’s ear. “Victorine!” called the braid manufacturer’s wife, “let the lady pass, child.” The matron’s alarm signal was not lost upon Heloise. “Your daughter must be more inflammable than tinder, madame, if you are afraid that she will catch fire by touching me,” she said. M. Chapoulot waited on the landing. “She is uncommonly handsome off the stage,” he remarked. Whereupon Mme. Chapoulot pinched him sharply and drove him indoors. “Here is a second-floor lodger that has a mind to set up for being on the fourth floor,” said Heloise as she continued to climb. “But mademoiselle is accustomed to going higher and higher.” “Well, old boy,” said Heloise, entering the bedroom and catching sight of the old musician’s white, wasted face. “Well, old boy, so we are not very well? Everybody at the theatre is asking after you; but though one’s heart may be in the right place, every one has his own affairs, you know, and cannot find time to go to see friends. Gaudissart talks of coming round every day, and every morning the tiresome management gets hold of him. Still, we are all of us fond of you--” “Mme. Cibot,” said the patient, “be so kind as to leave us; we want to talk about the theatre and my post as conductor, with this lady. Schmucke, will you go to the door with Mme. Cibot?” At a sign from Pons, Schmucke saw Mme. Cibot out at the door, and drew the bolts. “Ah, that blackguard of a German! Is he spoiled, too?” La Cibot said to herself as she heard the significant sounds. “That is M. Pons’ doing; he taught him those disgusting tricks.... But you shall pay for this, my dears,” she thought as she went down stairs. “Pooh! if that tight-rope dancer tells him about the thousand francs, I shall say that it is a farce.” She seated herself by Cibot’s pillow. Cibot complained of a burning sensation in the stomach. Remonencq had called in and given him a draught while his wife was upstairs.