It was a large, old-fashioned, Louis Quatorze piece of furniture, the top of which, formed from a single slab of some kind of gray and yellow marble, was stained all over with the coffee, wine, and ink-splashes of many generations of customers. It looked as old--nay, older--than the house itself.
The young men who were playing at dominoes looked up and nodded, as three or four others had done in the outer room when we passed through.
"Bonjour, l'ami," said the one who seemed to be winning. "Hast thou chanced to see anything of Martial, coming along!"
"I observed a nose defiling round the corner of the Rue de Bussy," replied Müller, "and it looked as if Martial might be somewhere in the far distance, but I didn't wait to see. Are you expecting him?"
"Confound him--yes! We've been waiting more than half an hour."
"If you have invited him to breakfast," said Müller, "he is sure to come."
"On the contrary, he has invited us to breakfast."
"Ah, that alters the case," said Müller, philosophically. "Then he is sure not to come." "Garçon!"
A bullet-headed, short-jacketed, long-aproned waiter, who looked as if he had not been to bed since his early youth, answered the summons,
"M'sieur!"