Montbar ordered up a bottle of old Burgundy, and sent for Antoine.
Ten minutes later Antoine appeared. He was a fine, handsome fellow, twenty-five or six years of age, about Montbar’s height; a fact which the latter, in looking him over from head to foot, remarked with satisfaction. The postilion paused at the threshold, and, carrying his hand to his hat in a military salute, he said: “Did the citizen send for me?”
“Are you the man they call Antoine?” asked Montbar.
“At your service, and that of your company.”
“Well, you can serve me, friend. But close the door and come here.”
Antoine closed the door, came within two steps of Montbar, saluted again, and said: “Ready, master.”
“In the first place,” said Montbar, “if you have no objections, we’ll drink a glass of wine to the health of your mistress.”
“Oh! oh! My mistress!” cried Antoine. “Can fellows like me afford mistresses? They’re all very well for gentlemen such as you.”
“Come, you scamp!” said Montbar. “You can’t make me believe that, with your make-up, you’ve made a vow of chastity.”
“Oh! I don’t say I’m a monk in that particular. I may have a bit of a love-affair here and there along the high-road.”