The Minister was furious at once. “Tell him I am at breakfast! I wish people would let me alone.”
The footman asked pardon, but said M. Béchut claimed that he had an appointment with his Excellency. Roumestan softened visibly:
“Well, well, I will come. Let him wait in the library.”
“Not in the library,” said Méjean, “it is occupied; there’s the Superior Council! You appointed this hour to see them.”
“Well, in M. de Lappara’s room, then—”
“I have put the Bishop of Tulle in there,” said the footman timidly; “your Excellency said—”
Every place was occupied with office-seekers whom he had confidentially told that the breakfast hour was the time when they would be sure to find him—and most of them were personages that could not be made to “do antechamber” like the ordinary herd.
“Go into my morning room,” said Rosalie as she rose. “I am going out.”
And while the secretary and the footman went to reassure and quiet the waiting petitioners Numa hastily swallowed his cup of vervain, scalding himself badly, exclaiming: “I am at my wits’ end, overwhelmed.”
“What can that sorry fellow Béchut be after now?” asked Rosalie, instinctively lowering her voice in that crowded house where a stranger was lurking behind every door.