"What will I complain of? How! my most inveterate enemy shall find means by proceeding fraudulently to force me to have his portrait in my house, even on my nuptial bed, and the magistrates will not take me under the aegis? Give me the portrait, Anastasia--give it to me--not the side where the painting is, the sight revolts me! The traitor cannot deny it; it is in his hand; Cabrion to his good friend Pipelet, for life. For life! Yes, that's it; for my life, without doubt, he pursues me, and he will finish by having it. I live in continual alarm: I shall think that this infernal being is here, always here-- under the floor, in the walls, in the ceiling! at night he sees me reposing in the arms of my wife; in the daytime he is standing behind me, always with his satanic smile; and who will tell me that even at this moment he is not here, concealed somewhere, like a venomous insect? Come, now! are you there, monster? Are you here?" cried Pipelet, accompanying this furious imprecation with a circular movement of the head, as if he had wished to interrogate all parts of the lodge. "I am here, good friend!" said most affectionately the well-known voice of Cabrion. These words seemed to come from the bottom of the alcove, merely from the effects of ventriloquism; for the infernal artist was standing outside the door of the lodge, enjoying the smallest details of this scene; however, after having pronounced these last words, he prudently made off, not without leaving, as we shall see, a new subject of rage, astonishment, and meditation to his victim. Mrs. Pipelet, always courageous and skeptical, looked under the bed, and in every hole and corner, without success, while M. Pipelet, undone by the last blow, had fallen on the chair in a state of utter despair. "It's nothing, Alfred," said Anastasia; "the scoundrel was concealed behind the door, and while I looked one way, he escaped the other. Patience, I'll catch him one of these days, and then, let him look out! he shall taste the handle of my broom!" The door opened, and Mrs. Seraphin, housekeeper of Jacques Ferrand, entered. "Good-day, Mrs. Seraphin," said Mrs. Pipelet, who, wishing to conceal from a stranger her domestic sorrows, assumed a very gracious and smiling air; "what can I do to serve you?" "First, tell me, then, what is your new sign?" "New sign?" "The little sign." "A little sign?" "Yes, black with red letters, which is nailed over the door of your alley." "In the street?" "Why, yes, in the street, just over your door." "My dear Mrs. Seraphin, may I never speak again, if I understand a word; and you, old darling?" Alfred remained dumb. "In truth, it concerns Mr. Pipelet," said Mrs. Seraphin; "he must explain this to me."