“To be sure—certainly—a delightful person,” said Moronval.
“And a superb voice. You must hear him,” interrupted Labassandre, opening the door and calling Said in a voice of thunder.
A frightful howl was heard in reply, followed by the appearance of the delightful person.
An awkward schoolboy appeared, whose tunic, like all tunics, and, indeed, like all the clothing of boys of a certain age, was too short and too tight for him; drawn in, in the fashion of a caftan, it told the story at once of an Egyptian in European clothing. His features were regular and delicate enough, but the yellow skin was stretched so tightly over the bones and muscles that the eyes seemed to close of themselves whenever the mouth opened, and vice versa.
This miserable young man, whose skin was so scanty, inspired you with a strong desire to relieve his sufferings by cutting a slit somewhere. He at once remembered Augustin, who had been his parents’ coachman, and who had given him all his cigar-stumps.
“What shall I say to him from you?” asked Constant, in her most amiable tone.
“Nothing,” answered Said, promptly.
“And your parents, how are they? Have you had any news from them lately?”
“No.”
“Have they returned to Egypt, as they thought of doing?”