At the square of the _Great Star_ he turned to the left, drove along the river, passed the well-known resort called simply _The Tents_, and stopped not far from the building of the general staff of the army and drew up before a large distinguished house with a fenced front garden and cast-iron gate to the driveway. He threw the reins to the groom, who sat statuesquely behind him, and said: "Drive home." Jumping from the cart, he observed the handle of the scraper sticking in the top of one of his boots. He drew it out, threw it on the seat, and entered the house. The janitor, an old acquaintance, greeted him with the servile intimacy of the tip-expecting tribe. On the second floor he stopped and pulled the bell whose glass knob glittered above a neat brass plate. "Ludovika Kraissl," was engraved upon it. A maid, clad with prim propriety in a white apron and white lace cap, opened the door. He entered and handed her his hat. "Is Madame at home?" "No, sir." He looked at her through half-closed lids, and observed how her milk-white little madonna's face flushed to the roots of her blonde hair. "Where did she go?" "Madame meant to go to the dressmaker," the girl stuttered, "and to make some purchases." She avoided his eyes. She had been in service only three months and had not yet perfected herself in lying. He whistled a tune between his set teeth and entered the drawing-room. A penetrating perfume streamed forth. "Open the window, Meta." She passed noiselessly through the room and executed his command. Frowning, he looked about him. The empty pomp of the light woman offended his taste. The creature who lived here had a gift for filling every corner with banal and tasteless trivialities. When he had turned over the flat to her it had been a charming little place, full of delicate tints and the simple lines of Louis Seize furniture. In a few years she had made a junk shop of it. "Would you care for tea, sir, or anything else?" the girl asked. "No, thank you. Pull off my boots, Meta. I'll change my dress and then go out again." Modestly, almost humbly, she bowed before him and set his spurred foot gently on her lap. Then she loosened the top straps. He let his glance rest, well pleased, upon her smooth, silvery blonde hair. How would it work if he sent his mistress packing and installed this girl in her place? But he immediately abandoned the thought. He had seen the thing done by some of his friends. In a single year the chastest and most modest servant girl was so thoroughly corrupted that she had to be driven into the streets. "We men seem to emit a pestilential air," he reflected, "that corrupts every woman." "Or at least men of my kind," he added carefully. "Have you any other wishes, sir?" asked the girl, daintily wiping her hands on her apron. "No, thank you." She turned to the door. "One thing more, Meta. When did Madame say she would be back?" Her face was again mantled with blood.