The door opened.
"Hullo! who is talking about Lassagne?" asked a young man of twenty-eight to thirty, as he came in.
Ernest turned round.
"Ah! it is you," he replied. "I was just saying to M. Dumas,"—he pointed to me, I bowed,—"I was just telling M. Dumas that this was your place, that his, and the other mine."
"Are you our new colleague?" Lassagne asked me.
"Yes, monsieur."
"You are welcome." And he held out his hand to me.
I took it. It was one of those warm and trembling hands that it is a pleasure to shake from the first touch—a loyal hand, revealing the nature of him to whom it belonged.
"Good!" I said to myself: "this man will be friendly to me, I am sure."
"Listen," he said: "a word of advice. It is rumoured that you have come here with the idea of entering upon a literary career: do not talk too loudly of such a project; it will only do you harm.... Hush! that is Oudard entering his room."