Something told me that the woman had some hidden reason for making that suggestion. I fancied that she desired to come to my lodgings,édé so that she might find out more about me and be certain that I had given my own name in my letter to Mignonne; indeed, might it not be that the young mother herself had asked her to try to find out who I was?
As I had nothing to fear from such information as Madame Potrelle could collect about me, I accepted her proposal.
"Here is my address," I said, handing her one of my cards. "Be there in two hours, and I shall have made my purchases. Please be good enough to bring me my shirts at the same time."
Madame Potrelle was prompt; I had been at home only a few minutes, when Pomponne appeared and said with comic gravity:
"There's a woman outside asking for you, monsieur. She has something in her apron, and a parcel under her arm. I suppose she's a second-hand dealer who wants to sell you something."
"Hold your tongue, Pomponne, and show her in!"
My servant obeyed my order, although he seemed much puzzled that I received in my salon a person whom he evidently considered unworthy of the honor; and he kept his eye on the object which the concierge held to her breast, wrapped in her apron. I motioned to him to withdraw, and he left the room, walking backward.
Madame Potrelle made a succession of reverences, and handed me my shirts, which she had under her arm, wrapped in a handkerchief. The good woman expressed her admiration of my apartments and their furnishings; which goes to show that opulence always produces its effect on the multitude and on private individuals as well. I tried to put her at her ease, and forced her to sit down in an easy-chair; but she continued to hug her apron to her breast, and it seemed to embarrass her.
At last she partly opened the apron, saying:
"I beg your pardon, monsieur, for venturing to bring him here--but he never goes out, poor dear, and I thought it would do him good."
"What do you mean, Madame Potrelle? have you got a child in there?"
"No, monsieur, no; it's one of my cats, Bribri, the youngest one. The others let him be and won't ever play with him, just because he limps a bit, poor little rascal! He's got a little trouble in his leg. Cats are as bad as men; they turn up their noses at the weak ones! That's why I wanted to give the poor dear a little pleasure."