Madame de Balzac grew impatient. It was cold standing in the night-air.
Her husband, nonplussed and exceedingly annoyed, did not know what to
say to the bystanders. One of the latter offered to fetch a locksmith,
named Grimault, who lived in a street close by. The suggestion was
gladly agreed to, since there seemed nothing else to be done. However,
until such time as the locksmith should come, they continued battering
at the gate and throwing tiny pebbles at the windows; and the master,
thus shut out from his own dwelling, hallooed to the invisible valet:
"I am Monsieur de Balzac." It was useless. The door refused to open.
Around Madame de Balzac, now seated on one of the trunks, other
passers-by had gathered and listened to the novelist's excited
comments on his predicament. The occurrence was certainly
extraordinary.
At length, the locksmith was brought and the gate was forced. The
whole party, hosts and impromptu guests, hurried through the narrow
courtyard, entered the house without further hindrance, and were met
by a strange spectacle. The valet had been seized with a sudden fit of
madness and had smashed the crockery, scattered the food about, spilt
a bottle of wine on the carpet, upset the furniture, and ruined the
flowers.
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