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Updated: June 28, 2025
Why, then picking up her skirt she threads her way through the crowded streets, reads the advertisements on the walls, hails the omnibus, inquires at the concierge's loge, murmurs as she goes upstairs, "Que c'est haut le cinqième," and then? Why, the door opens, and she cries, "Je t'aime."
She saw the woman's gaze, hard and curious, take in the details of her appearance, from her muddy shoes up to her blood-stained cheek. "I've had an accident je viens d'avoir un petit accident," she explained hurriedly. "Il faut que je téléphone immédiatement." The concierge's face cleared slightly. "Pour chercher un médecin, sans doute?" she suggested. "Bien voici le téléphone."
Then he filled the others, and sat smiling, this big young man, who had brought his loved ones across the sea, and was trying to make them happy up a flight of stone stairs, above a concierge's bureau that smelled of garlic. "First," he said, "I believe it is customary to toast the King. Friends, I give you the good King and brave soldier, Ferdinand of Livonia."
It is rhythm that makes music, that makes poetry, that makes pictures; what we are all after is rhythm, and the whole of the young man's life is going to a tune as he walks home, to the same tune as the stars are going over his head. All things are singing together. And he sings as he passes the concierge's lodge, pitying the poor couple asleep what do they know of love?
On arriving at the Rue de Monceau, Juve went straight to the concièrge's office and having shown his badge, began to question her: "Tell me, Madame Ceiron, did you see the King when he came to pay his visit to his mistress?" "No, Monsieur. I saw nothing at all.
"Yes, she was nice to paint from, but it was difficult to get her to sit. A concierge's daughter you wouldn't think it, would you?" My astonishment amused him, and he began to laugh. "You don't know her?" he said. "That is Marie Pellegrin," and when I asked him where he had met her he told me, at Alphonsine's; but I did not know where Alphonsine's was. "I'm going to dine there to-night.
He saluted Guerchard, and said to M. Formery, "I have just found this scrap of cloth on the edge of the well at the bottom of the garden. The concierge's wife tells me that it has been torn from Victoire's dress." "I feared it," said M. Formery, taking the scrap of cloth from Mm. "I feared foul play. We must go to the well at once, send some one down it, or have it dragged."
Contrary to all expectations, the concierge's wife appeared neither surprised nor angry. She only shrugged her shoulders as she said, "As you like, my 'little pussy-cat. Only believe me, it is no use economizing in one's eating." From the day of this coup d'etat, Henrietta went down every morning herself to buy her penny-roll and the little supply of milk which constituted her breakfast.
On leaning out one day, Gervaise experienced a peculiar sensation: she fancied she beheld herself down below, near the concierge's room under the porch, her nose in the air, and examining the house for the first time; and this leap thirteen years backwards caused her heart to throb. The courtyard was a little dingier and the walls more stained, otherwise it hadn't changed much.
There was no longer any light in the concierge's lodge, and Armand had some difficulty in making himself heard. At last the woman came to the door. She was tired and cross after two interruptions of her night's rest, but she had a partiality for her young lodger, whose pleasant ways and easy liberality had been like a pale ray of sunshine through the squalor of every-day misery.
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