In the embarrassing silence could be heard the distant sound of hammers interspersed with music and singing. The musicians were rehearsing, while carpenters were busy putting up and hanging the stage on which the concert was to take place. The door opened; Méjean entered, his hands full of papers.
“Still more petitions!”
Roumestan flew into a rage: No, it was really too bad!—if it were the Pope himself there would be no place to give him. Méjean calmly placed before him the heap of letters, cards and scented notes:
“It is very difficult to refuse—you promised them, you know—”
“I promised? I haven’t spoken to one of them!”
“Listen a moment: ‘My dear Minister—I beg to remind you of your kind speech,’ and this one, ‘The General informs me that you were so kind as to offer him,’ and this, ‘Reminding the Minister of his promise.’”
“I must be a somnambulist, then!” said Roumestan in astonishment.
The fact was that as soon as the day for the concert was decided upon Numa had said to every one whom he met in the Senate or Chamber: “I count on you for the 10th, you know,” and as he added “Quite a private affair,” no one had failed to accept the flattering invitation.
Embarrassed at being caught in the act by his wife, he vented his irritability upon her as usual.
“It’s the fault of your sister with her taborist. What need have I of all this fuss? I did not intend to give our concerts until much later—but that girl, such an impatient little person! ‘No, no, right away;’ and you were in as much of a hurry as she was! L’azé me fiche if I don’t believe this taborist has turned your heads.”