“It will doubtless be the soot in the chimney, Monsieur,” he said coolly.
“H’m! You are sure it is not a candle in need of snuffing?”
“The best wax, Monsieur? Monsieur speaks as if he burnt filthy tallow. Monsieur’s nostrils are more sensitive than discriminating. A, là! What it is to be bred to this imperishable refinement!”
He was busy while he spoke in snuffing the wick, and in privately depositing the reeking instrument on the hob.
“I go to announce the company, Monsieur,” he said. “In the meantime, if I were Monsieur, I would not spit too much on the carpet.”
“An insolent rascal!” muttered the Beau to himself as the man disappeared. “I shall have to discharge him.”
He had, however, so completely forgotten his resolve the next minute, that when Loustalot, returning, thrust his head round the door, he could not for the moment recall who he was.
“O! by the by, Monsieur,” said the man, “Monsieur Magdelaine, the confectioner, desires to know if you will settle with him your little account for Maraschino and Biscuits de Rheims.”
The Beau smiled, waving his hand.
“To be sure—when it is full moon. Tell him so, my friend.”