"He's not a caller. I heard you say once: 'If that person comes here again, and I have company, call me at once; don't let him in.'" I trembled as I began to realize who the visitor was. "Can it be----" I faltered. "Yes, monsieur; it's the party named Ballangier--the one who's so free and easy like, and makes himself so much at home here, just as if he was in his own house." I felt as if a heavy weight had settled down on my chest. In an instant all my cheerful thoughts had vanished. A feeling of depression replaced them. The presence--the very name--of Ballangier always produced that effect on me. "Has this--gentleman been here long?" "About three-quarters of an hour, monsieur, when you rang." "Didn't you tell him that I had been at a ball, and that I was likely to sleep very late?" "Yes, monsieur, I said all that. But he just sat down and said: 'That's all the same to me; I've got plenty of time.' And then, he took out a pipe and lighted it. It was no use for me to say: 'You mustn't smoke here; my master don't like the smell.'--He sings out: 'I smoke everywhere! and you can open the windows and burn some _castonnade_.'" "Show the gentleman in, and leave us. And if anybody should call while he is here, remember, Pomponne, that I am not at home to anyone." "Yes, monsieur--as usual." Pomponne went out, and in a moment the person who was waiting entered my bedroom. Ballangier was thirty-four years old; he looked older, because he had led a riotous life for a long while. Dissipation and debauchery make a man old prematurely. Imagine a man of more than ordinary height, who would have had a good figure if he had not acquired the habit of stooping. A refined, regular face, aquiline nose, small, heart-shaped mouth, and very black eyes surmounted by heavy eyebrows; an abundance of hair, once black, but now gray. All this would have formed an attractive whole, had it not been spoiled by a pronounced hangdog air. An expression that was impudent when not made stupid by drink, and manners that were often brutal; in addition, clothes that were always soiled and often in tatters, and the gait of a drummer; this rough sketch may serve to convey an impression of the person who stood before me. On the present occasion he wore a brown frock-coat that was neither ripped nor torn. It lacked only two buttons in front, but it was covered with spots and stains. His black trousers were shockingly muddy, as were his boots. As for his linen, that was invisible. A frayed black stock encircled his neck, and he held in his hand a round black hat which seemed to have had many hard knocks. When he entered my bedroom, Ballangier removed his pipe from his mouth. He walked forward, swaying his hips, nodded to me with a smile, and stretched himself out in an easy-chair, saying: "Here I am! How goes it, Charles?" "Very well, thanks."