“What tenant?” “Mlle. Dollon.” “Mlle. Dollon? And what may you want with her?” Surprised at this discouraging reception, Fandor, who was anything but patience personified, merely declared: “That I propose to tell Mlle. Dollon herself in good time.” But the virago had picked up her sticks again, preparatory to resuming her work. “To begin with,” she announced, “you’ll not say anything at all to her, because you’re not going up to see her.” “Not going up to see her! and pray, why?” “That’s the orders she’s given me—that’s why!” “Then you are the concierge?” “Yes, I am. What then?” Jérôme Fandor realized he would inevitably be shown the door unless he could secure the good graces of this vixen who was so conscientious in the matter of obeying orders. “Madam,” he now addressed her in his most winning voice, forgetting how strange it sounded for an apache, such as he looked in his disreputable clothes, to be speaking in tones of perfect politeness. “Madam, you would oblige me very greatly by informing me why Mlle. Dollon cannot receive me. I have not come to trouble her unduly. I am here to offer her a choice of wall-papers for the rooms she is moving into.” The young man had found an excellent way to conciliate the good woman. He had called her “Madam,” whereas in the _quartier_ she was invariably addressed as “mother” so-and-so, by reason of her enormous bulk. “Well, my good sir,” replied the fat portress, suddenly disarmed, “I’ll tell you something; come along in to my lodge and I’ll have a peer first at your patterns, and if there’s any that look like suiting her book, I’ll go up and show her them, or you shall go up yourself. She and I have the same taste in wall-papers.” Be sure Fandor took care to express no doubts on the latter point, albeit it struck him as highly improbable that the fat concierge should share the same tastes as the artist, Elisabeth Dollon; he readily enough agreed: “After you, madam,”—and, preceded by the fat woman trotting along in front of him, this being her own way of moving rapidly, Fandor advanced into the concierge’s lodge. “First of all,” began his hostess graciously, “so as our talk may go easier, I’ll tell you my name; it’s Mme. Doulenques. Now, you mustn’t bear malice because I was a bit rough with you just at first. The fact is the young lady is still upset after her adventure.” Boiling with impatience, Fandor wished Mme. Doulenques to the devil; the all-important thing for him was to see Elisabeth. Mighty little he cared to listen to the fat creature’s babble. But there, to hustle her was impossible. He questioned: “Her adventure? Mlle. Elisabeth Dollon?...” “Why, yes; you haven’t heard? Ah! true, they didn’t put it in the papers. Well, just imagine, Mr. Paperer, the poor, gentle lamb, yesterday evening as she was coming home from her work, was attacked by apaches.” “Great heavens! not seriously hurt, I trust?”