"It must be something worse than a mere love affair." Old Tabaret entered the porch of the house.

The concierge seated by the window of his lodge saw him as he passed beneath the gas lamp.
"Ah," said he, "the proprietor has returned at last." "So he has," replied his wife, "but it looks as though his princess would have nothing to do with him to-night.

He seems more loose than ever." "Is it not positively indecent," said the concierge, "and isn't he in a state! His fair ones do treat him well! One of these fine mornings I shall have to take him to a lunatic asylum in a straight waistcoat." "Look at him now!" interrupted his wife, "just look at him now, in the middle of the courtyard!" The old fellow had stopped at the extremity of the porch.

He had taken off his hat, and, while talking to himself, gesticulated violently.
"No," said he, "I have not yet got hold of the clue, I am getting near it; but have not yet found it out." He mounted the staircase, and rang his bell, forgetting that he had his latch-key in his pocket.

His housekeeper opened the door.
"What, is it you, sir," said she, "and at this hour!" "What's that you say ?" asked the old fellow.
"I say," replied the housekeeper, "that it is more than half-past eight o'clock.