Nevertheless Morange had evidently sustained some internal damage of a
nature to cause anxiety. He was lapsing into the most singular manias.
While obstinately retaining possession of the over-large flat which he
had formerly occupied with his wife and daughter, he now lived there
absolutely alone; for he had dismissed his servant, and did his own
marketing, cooking, and cleaning. For ten years nobody but himself had
been inside his rooms, and the most filthy neglect was suspected there.
But in vain did the landlord speak of repairs, he was not allowed even to
cross the threshold. Moreover, although the old accountant, who was now
white as snow, with a long, streaming beard, remained scrupulously clean
of person, he wore a most wretched threadbare coat, which he must have
spent his evenings in repairing. Such, too, was his maniacal, sordid
avarice that he no longer spent a farthing on himself apart from the
money which he paid for his bread--bread of the commonest kind, which he
purchased every four days and ate when it was stale, in order that he
might make it last the longer. This greatly puzzled the people who were
acquainted with him, and never a week went by without the house-porter
propounding the question: "When a gentleman of such quiet habits earns
eight thousand francs a year at his office and never spends a cent, what
can he do with his money?" Some folks even tried to reckon up the amount
which Morange must be piling in some corner, and thought that it might
perhaps run to some hundreds of thousands of francs.
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