A flood of bright light suddenly burst into the salon with the maid, who brought her mistress a card: "Heurteux, homme d'affaires."
The gentleman was waiting. He insisted on seeing Madame.
"Did you tell him that the doctor was away from home?"
She had told him; but it was Madame with whom he wished to speak.
"With me?"
With a feeling of uneasiness she scrutinized that coarse, rough card, that unfamiliar, harsh name: "Heurteux." Who could he be?
"Very well; show him in."
Heurteux, homme d'affaires, coming from the bright sunlight into the semi-darkness of the salon, blinked uncertainly, tried to distinguish his surroundings. She, on the contrary, distinguished very clearly a stiff, wooden figure, grizzly whiskers, a protruding under-jaw, one of those brigands of the Law whom we meet in the outskirts of the Palais de Justice, and who seem to have been born fifty years old, with a bitter expression about the mouth, an envious manner, and morocco satchels under their arms. He sat down on the edge of the chair to which she waved him, turned his head to make sure that the servant had left the room, then opened his satchel with great deliberation, as if to look for a paper. Finding that he did not speak, she began in an impatient tone:
"I must inform you, Monsieur, that my husband is away and that I am not familiar with any of his business matters."
Unmoved, with his hand still fumbling among his documents, the man replied: