of yours which I have lent him, and he wants to meet you. You think I am
interested only in obscure and twisted natures. Well, you will find
Carhaix really unique. He is the one Catholic with intelligence and
without sanctimoniousness; the one poor man with envy and hatred for
none."




CHAPTER III


Durtal was in a situation familiar to all bachelors who have the
concierge do their cleaning. Only these know how a tiny lamp can fairly
drink up oil, and how the contents of a bottle of cognac can become
paler and weaker without ever diminishing. They know, too, how a once
comfortable bed can become forbidding, and how scrupulously a concierge
can respect its least fold or crease. They learn to be resigned and to
wash out a glass when they are thirsty and make their own fire when they
are cold.

Durtal's concierge was an old man with drooping moustache and a powerful
breath of "three-six." Indolent and placid, he opposed an unbudgeable
inertia to Durtal's frantic and profanely expressed demand that the
sweeping be done at the same hour every morning.

Threats, prayers, insults, the withholding of gratuities, were without
effect. Père Rateau took off his cap, scratched his head, promised, in
the tone of a man much moved, to mend his ways, and next day came later
than ever.