He said to his porter—
"If some friend comes and knocks at my hospitable portal, deal kindly with him.... I shall soon return: I go to breathe the evening air upon the Pont des Arts."
He said to his pastry-cook, Grandjean, who lived close by him in the rue des Petits-Augustins—
"Monsieur Grandjean, the vol-au-vent that you did me the honour to send yesterday had a crust of Roman cement, obstinate to the teeth; give a more unctuous turn to your culinary art and people will be grateful to you."
While all these things were happening, Rabbe fully imagined that he was writing his novel, La Sœur grise.
One day, Thiers came in to see him, as was his custom.
"Well, Rabbe," he said, "what are you at work upon now?"
"Parbleu!" replied Rabbe, "the same as usual, you know! My Sœur grise."
"It ought to be nearly finished by now."