The lazy porter of the faubourg
Saint-Germain, with lace on every seam of his coat, dabbles in stocks;
he of the Chaussee d'Antin takes his ease, reads the money-articles in
the newspapers, and has a business of his own in the faubourg
Montmartre. The portress in the quarter of prostitution was formerly a
prostitute; in the Marais, she has morals, is cross-grained, and full
of crotchets.
On seeing Monsieur Jules this particular portress, holding her
knitting in one hand, took a knife and stirred the half-extinguished
peat in her foot-warmer; then she said:--
"You want Madame Etienne; do you mean Madame Etienne Gruget?"
"Yes," said Jules, assuming a vexed air.
"Who makes trimmings?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, monsieur," she said, issuing from her cage, and laying
her hand on Jules' arm and leading him to the end of a long
passage-way, vaulted like a cellar, "go up the second staircase at
the end of the court-yard--where you will see the windows with the
pots of pinks; that's where Madame Etienne lives."
"Thank you, madame. Do you think she is alone?"
"Why shouldn't she be alone? she's a widow."
Jules hastened up a dark stairway, the steps of which were knobby with
hardened mud left by the feet of those who came and went. On the
second floor he saw three doors but no signs of pinks. Fortunately, on
one of the doors, the oiliest and darkest of the three, he read these
words, chalked on a panel: "Ida will come to-night at nine o'clock."
"This is the place," thought Jules.
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