Duroy hastened to the room of the governor, whom he found somewhat cool, and with a look of suspicion in his eye. After having listened to the statement of the case, Monsieur Walter said: “Go and see the woman yourself, and contradict the paragraph in such terms as will put a stop to such things being written about you any more. I mean the latter part of the paragraph. It is very annoying for the paper, for yourself, and for me. A journalist should no more be suspected than Caesar’s wife.”
Duroy got into a cab, with Saint-Potin as his guide, and called out to the driver: “Number 18 Rue de l’Ecureuil, Montmartre.”
It was a huge house, in which they had to go up six flights of stairs. An old woman in a woolen jacket opened the door to them. “What is it you want with me now?” said she, on catching sight of Saint-Potin.
He replied: “I have brought this gentleman, who is an inspector of police, and who would like to hear your story.”
Then she let him in, saying: “Two more have been here since you, for some paper or other, I don’t know which,” and turning towards Duroy, added: “So this gentleman wants to know about it?”
“Yes. Were you arrested by an agent des mœurs ?”
She lifted her arms into the air. “Never in my life, sir, never in my life. This is what it is all about. I have a butcher who sells good meat, but who gives bad weight. I have often noticed it without saying anything; but the other day, when I asked him for two pounds of chops, as I had my daughter and my son-in-law to dinner, I caught him weighing in bits of trimmings—trimmings of chops, it is true, but not of mine. I could have made a stew of them, it is true, as well, but when I ask for chops it is not to get other people’s trimmings. I refused to take them, and he calls me an old shark. I called him an old rogue, and from one thing to another we picked up such a row that there were over a hundred people round the