It was the street that was afraid, not he.

As he kept his pipe in his mouth, he turned round every now and then to spit onto the pavement.
"Look, there's Madame Boche," he suddenly exclaimed and called down to her.

"Hi! Madame Boche." He had just caught sight of the concierge crossing the road.

She raised her head and recognised him, and a conversation ensured between them.
She hid her hands under her apron, her nose elevated in the air.

He, standing up now, his left arm passed round a chimney-pot, leant over.
"Have you seen my wife ?" asked he.
"No, I haven't," replied the concierge.