posed an unbudgeable
inertia to Durtal's frantic and profanely expressed demand that the
sweeping be done at the same hour every morning.

Threats, prayers, insults, the withholding of gratuities, were without
effect. Pere Rateau took off his cap, scratched his head, promised, in
the tone of a man much moved, to mend his ways, and next day came later
than ever.

"What a nuisance!" thought Durtal today, as he heard a key turning in
the lock, then he looked at his watch and observed that once again the
concierge was arriving after three o'clock in the afternoon.

There was nothing for it but to submit with a sigh to the ensuing
hullabaloo. Rateau, somnolent and pacific in his lodge, became a demon
when he got a broom in his hand. In this sedentary being, who could
drowse all morning in the stale basement atmosphere heavy with the
cumulative aroma of many meat-stews, a martial ardour, a warlike
ferocity, then asserted themselves, and like a red revolutionary he
assaulted the bed, charged the chairs, manhandled the picture frames,
knocked the tables over, rattled the water pitcher, and whirled Durtal's
brogues about by the laces as when a pillaging conqueror hauls a
ravished victim along by the hair. So he stormed the apartment like a
barricade and triumphantly brandished his battle standard, the dust rag,
over the reeking carnage of the furniture.

Durtal at such times sought refuge in the room which was not being
attacked. Today Rateau launched his offensive against the workroom, so
Durtal fled to the bedroom. From there, through the half open door, he
could see the enemy, with a feather duster like a Mohican war bonnet
over his head, doing a scalp dance around a table.

"If I only knew at what time that pest would break in on me so I could
always arrange to be out!" groaned Durtal. Now he ground his teeth, as
Rateau, with a yell, grabbed up the mop and, skating around on one leg,
belaboured the floor lustily.

The perspiring conqueror then appeared in the doorway and advanced to
reduce the chamber where Durtal was. The latter had to return to the
subjugated workroom, and the cat, shocked by the racket, arched its back
and, rubbing against its master's legs, followed him to a place of
safety.

In the thick of the conflict Des Hermies rang the door bell.

"I'll put on my shoes," cried Durtal, "and we'll get out of this.
Look--" he passed his hand over the table and brought back a coat of
grime that made him appea