I felt unutterably lost. I approached the door. I even started to push
it.
“_Attends, Nom de Dieu._” The _planton_ gave me another shove, faced
the door, knocked twice, and cried in accents of profound respect:
“Monsieur le Gestionnaire”—after which he gazed at me with really
supreme contempt, his neat pig-like face becoming almost circular.
I said to myself: This Gestionnaire, whoever he is, must be a very
terrible person, a frightful person, a person utterly without mercy.
From within a heavy, stupid, pleasant voice lazily remarked:
“_Entrez._”
The _planton_ threw the door open, stood stiffly on the threshold, and
gave me the look which _plantons_ give to eggs when _plantons_ are a
little hungry.