At that atrocious speech Pons started up as if he had received a shock from a galvanic battery, bowed stiffly to the lady, and went to find his spencer.  Now, it so happened that the door of Cecile’s bedroom, beyond the little drawing-room, stood open, and looking into the mirror, he caught sight of the girl shaking with laughter as she gesticulated and made signs to her mother.  The old artist understood beyond a doubt that he had been the victim of some cowardly hoax.  Pons went slowly down the stairs; he could not keep back the tears.  He understood that he had been turned out of the house, but why and wherefore he did not know.

“I am growing too old,” he told himself.  “The world has a horror of old age and poverty—­two ugly things.  After this I will not go anywhere unless I am asked.”

Heroic resolve!

Downstairs the great gate was shut, as it usually is in houses occupied by the proprietor; the kitchen stood exactly opposite the porter’s lodge, and the door was open.  Pons was obliged to listen while Madeleine told the servants the whole story amid the laughter of the servants.  She had not expected him to leave so soon.  The footman loudly applauded a joke at the expense of a visitor who was always coming to the house and never gave you more than three francs at the year’s end.

“Yes,” put in the cook; “but if he cuts up rough and does not come back, there will be three francs the less for some of us on New Year’s day.”

“Eh!  How is he to know?” retorted the footman.

“Pooh!” said Madeleine, “a little sooner or a little later—­what difference does it make?  The people at the other houses where he dines are so tired of him that they are going to turn him out.”

“The gate, if you please!”

Madeleine had scarcely uttered the words when they heard the old musician’s call to the porter.  It sounded like a cry of pain.  There was a sudden silence in the kitchen.

“He heard!” the footman said.

“Well, and if he did, so much the worser, or rather so much the better,” retorted Madeleine.  “He is an arrant skinflint.”

Poor Pons had lost none of the talk in the kitchen; he heard it all, even to the last word.  He made his way home along the boulevards, in the same state, physical and mental, as an old woman after a desperate struggle with burglars.  As he went he talked to himself in quick spasmodic jerks; his honor had been wounded, and the pain of it drove him on as a gust of wind whirls away a straw.  He found himself at last in the Boulevard du Temple; how he had come thither he could not tell.  It was five o’clock, and, strange to say, he had completely lost his appetite.

But if the reader is to understand the revolution which Pons’ unexpected return at that hour was to work in the Rue de Normandie, the promised biography of Mme. Cibot must be given in this place.