"Quicker, quicker!" he cried to the driver. "I am impatient, my friends are impatient. Quick, quick! Only God is patient."
"He's mad," grunted Struboff. "He's quite mad. The devil, I'm hot!"
Wetter suddenly assumed an air of great dignity and blandness.
"In offering to present us to madame at an hour possibly somewhat late," he said, "our dear M. Struboff shows his wonted amiability. We should be failing in gratitude if we did not thank him most sincerely."
"I didn't ask you to come," growled Struboff.
Wetter looked at him with an air of grieved surprise, but said nothing at all. He turned to me with a ridiculous look of protest, as though asking for my support. I laughed; the mad nonsense was so welcome to me.
We stopped before a tall house in the Rue Washington; Wetter bundled us out with immense haste. There were lights in the second-floor windows. "Madame expects us!" he cried with a rapturous clasping of his hands. "Come, come, dear Struboff!—Baron, Baron, pray take Struboff's arm; the steps to heaven are so steep."
Struboff seemed resigned to his fate; he allowed himself to be pushed upstairs without expostulation. He opened the door for us, and ushered us into the passage. As he preceded us, I had time for one whisper to Wetter.
"You're still mad about her, are you?" I said, pinching his arm.
"Still? Good Heavens, no! Again!" he answered.