"What is the name of the lady who just came in?" he demanded.
The concierge did not seem disposed to reply.
"Her name!" insisted the old man.
The tone was so sharp, so imperative, that the concierge was upset.
"Madame Juliette Chaffour," he answered.
"On what floor does she reside?"
"On the second, the door opposite the stairs."
A minute later, the old man was waiting in Madame Juliette's
drawing-room. Madame was dressing, the maid informed him, and would be
down directly.
Tabaret was astonished at the luxury of the room. There was nothing
flaring or coarse, or in bad taste. It was not at all like the apartment
of a kept woman. The old fellow, who knew a good deal about such things,
saw that everything was of great value. The ornaments on the mantelpiece
alone must have cost, at the lowest estimate, twenty thousand francs.
"Clergeot," thought he, "didn't exaggerate a bit."
Juliette's entrance disturbed his reflections.
She had taken off her dress, and had hastily thrown about her a loose
black dressing-gown, trimmed with cherry-coloured satin. Her beautiful
hair, slightly disordered after her drive, fell in cascades about her
neck, and curled behind her delicate ears.
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