“It is very annoying,” said he in a low voice, as if he feared to be overheard, “that Mme. Jansoulet has not been willing to come.”
Jansoulet answered him by a movement of despair and savage helplessness.
“Annoying, annoying,” repeated the other in a whisper, and feeling for his key in his pocket.
“Come, old fellow,” said the Nabob, taking his hand, “there’s no reason, because our wives don’t agree—That doesn’t hinder us from remaining friends. What a good chat the other day, eh?”
“No doubt” said the baron, disengaging himself, as he opened the door noiselessly, showing the deep workroom, whose lamp burned solitarily before the enormous empty chair. “Come, good-bye, I must go; I have my mail to despatch.”
“Ya didon, monci” (But look here, sir) said the poor Nabob, trying to joke, and using the patois of the south to recall to his old chum all the pleasant memories stirred up the other evening. “Our visit to Le Merquier still holds good. The picture we were going to present to him, you know. What day?”
“Ah, yes, Le Merquier—true—eh—well, soon. I will write to you.”
“Really? You know it is very important.”
“Yes, yes. I will write to you. Good-bye.”
And the big man shut his door in a hurry, as if he were afraid of his wife coming.