Still, as a matter of fact, despite his unpleasing exterior, M. Moche had earned an excellent reputation in the _quartier_. He was a serviceable, obliging old fellow, occasionally over inquisitive about other folks’ business, but as a rule ready enough to do a kindness. Many a one in the neighbourhood had had recourse to him at one time or another for little loans of money, granted, it is fair to say, at quite reasonable rates of interest, and none had come to any harm at the hands of the old man of business. The truth is, M. Moche was richer than people might suppose, judging by the appearance of his abode on the fourth floor, a quite modest set of apartments. Apart from the outer room with the barred and windowed partition, the accommodation included a second apartment, a trifle larger, a trifle more pretentious, which was honoured with the title of drawing room. One or two armchairs of worn and faded leather and a round table with a gas chandelier over it made up the furniture. The room had two windows looking on the street, and affording a superb view over the northern parts of the city and the fortifications running parallel with the Boulevard Mortier. The third room of the flat was M. Moche’s bedroom, a chamber rarely occupied, however, for its tenant frequently slept from home, and appeared to utilize his quarters in the Rue Saint-Fargeau merely as a place for interviewing callers and conducting his business affairs in general. M. Moche, in fact, was entitled to use more than one address, and it was matter of common knowledge that he was owner of a house in the La Chapelle district. ... The collector had finished his verification of the total, and declared it to be correct. Then he added, as he turned to take leave of M. Moche: “There, my day’s work’s done, or as good as done; I’ve only another flight to climb in your house, and then back to the bank as fast as I can go, for I’m behind my time already.” At the words, M. Moche looked at the man with an air of surprise. “You have a payment to collect on the floor above,” he asked, “and from whom, pray?” Bernard consulted a little memorandum book dangling by a string from a button of his uniform. “From a M. Paulet.” “Oh, ho!” laughed M. Moche. “Yes, that’s so,” affirmed the other; “... oh, a mere trifle, a matter of 27 francs!” “Well, good luck to you,” concluded the old man philosophically, closing the wicket, as the bank employé took his leave with a bow and a final word of politeness: “Hoping to meet you again, sir!”