He appeared not to hear me and quickened his step. He continued breathlessly as far as the Rue Matignon, down which he turned. Then suddenly he stopped in front of a tall, melancholy, five-storied house. In silence he looked anxiously at the flat stucco façade with its numerous windows.
"Are you going to be there long?" I asked him. "Do you know that Madame Cère lives in this house?"
I knew that name would annoy him. Madame Cère was a woman whose artificial beauty, well-known venality and obvious stupidity he had always detested. Old and of neglected appearance she was suspected of being a shop-lifter and appropriating lace. But in a weak almost plaintive voice, he replied:
"Do you think so?"
"I am sure of it. Look at those windows on the second story and those hideous curtains with red leopards."
He shook his head.
"But certainly Madame Cère lives there. At this very moment she is probably behind one of those red leopards."
He seemed as if he would like to call on her. I expressed my surprise.
