"Exactly forty, my dear sir—you reckon like Barême."
"Veil, I can reckon all right."
The situation was growing embarrassing. Had we opened my poor mother's banking account and scratched together every farthing, we should certainly not have been able to find the forty francs demanded. Just at that moment the door opened.
"Is M. Dumas in?" asked a hoarse, raucous voice.
"Yes, M. Dumas is here," I replied in a bad temper. "What do you want with him?"
"I don't want him."
"Who does, then?"
"An Englishman at M. Cartier's."
"An Englishman?" I repeated.