"From him--he comes from him? Then it's me he wants. Monsieur Renardin must have sent him to me. What do you want of me, my boy?" The little Auvergnat looked at Mademoiselle Arthémise, who was a strapping, red-faced wench of about thirty, with stray hairs on her chin and upper lip that made her look like a man disguised as a woman. "Be you Mademoiselle Georgette?" he asked. "Mademoiselle Georgette!" replied the stout servant, with a savage glare. "Yes, yes, that's me." "And you live in the entresol yonder?" "Yes, yes, it's me, I tell you! Did Monsieur Renardin send you to bring that box to Mademoiselle Georgette, on the entresol?" "Yes; it's from your neighbor, with all his compliments, mademoiselle." "Ah! we'll just look and see what he sends to that hussy!" And Mademoiselle Arthémise seized the box and was beginning to tear off the wrapper, when the concierge called to her: "I beg your pardon, mademoiselle; you take that box when you know perfectly well it isn't for you." "What business is it of yours? What do you want to meddle in it for, you low-lived porter? Does the shirtmaker pay you to look after her lovers' presents?" "No, mademoiselle, the shirtmaker doesn't pay me, but I'm bound to do my duty; if that Auvergnat Savoyard had said what he wanted, I'd have let him pass and carry to Mademoiselle Georgette what he had for her." "Oh, yes! everybody knows that you look after the lovers; that's your business, you know." "My business is to see that the tenants get what's addressed to them. Give me that box, which isn't for you." "Not if I know it! Candied fruits! apricots! Look at this, will you! He gives candied fruits to that slut, and he says there's no need of my putting mushrooms in the chicken fricassee! that I spend too much money! that I ain't economical! Just wait! just wait! I'll give you candied prunes and cherries packed in straw!" "But I tell you again to give me that box, Mademoiselle Arthémise; you are not Mademoiselle Georgette!" The little Auvergnat, who was just beginning to understand that he had made a botch of his errand, interposed at that point. "What! ain't you the lady on the entresol?" he asked. "Bah! hold your tongue, you brat, it's none of your business! Here, here's an orange; put that down and show me your heels!" And Mademoiselle Arthémise stuffed a piece of candied orange into the bootblack's mouth. He accepted and ate it; but he was none the less determined to recover the box. He tried to take it away from Monsieur Renardin's maid, and the concierge seconded his efforts. But the stout Arthémise was a muscular wench, able to contend with more formidable antagonists. She began by throwing a slice of quince in the boy's face; then she planted a candied apricot on the concierge's left eye, whereat he cried out like an ass whose eye has been put out; then she dealt blows indiscriminately to right and left.