As he owned nothing, he never locked his door, unless occasionally, though very rarely, when he was engaged in some pressing work. Even when absent he left his key in the lock. “You will be robbed,” said Ma’am Bougon. “Of what?” said Marius. The truth is, however, that he had, one day, been robbed of an old pair of boots, to the great triumph of Ma’am Bougon.

There came a second knock, as gentle as the first.

“Come in,” said Marius.

The door opened.

“What do you want, Ma’am Bougon?” asked Marius, without raising his eyes from the books and manuscripts on his table.

A voice which did not belong to Ma’am Bougon replied:⁠—

“Excuse me, sir⁠—”

It was a dull, broken, hoarse, strangled voice, the voice of an old man, roughened with brandy and liquor.