He glanced at the bedroom door, lay down on the rug before the fire, and, wrapping his cloak about his haggard face, committed himself to the hopelessness of slumber.
CHAPTER XVI.
The citizen Theophilus was at points of discussion with a rather dissipated-looking phantom of respectability that had descended upon him at an extremely early hour.
“Let the citizen—and, moreover, monsieur the Englishman—rest assured,” he said, “that I accept his commission with a high sense of the compliment implied. But it is not specific: oh, mon Dieu Jésus! that is all I complain—it is not specific.”
“In what way?”
“For example, there is, for consideration, the toilette of Vesta, as well as that of Aurora.”
“Why, deuce take it, man; you don’t suppose I expect the girl to go to bed in her petticoats, if that’s what you mean?”
“C’est bien, monsieur. Je sais la carte du pays.” (He bridged his fingers, tapping the tips together to accent every item.) “I am to procure, then, the citoyenne a wardrobe, plain in character and of modest proportions. It is for the reason that the citoyenne may possess such attire as will not militate against her chance of obtaining respectable employment. Scrupulously so, monsieur. This wardrobe is to be for both day and night. Also, scrupulously so. Moreover, it is to be of the limitations that will not tend to encourage the idea of a prolonged sojourn in a present sanctuary, offered (I have monsieur’s word for it) on grounds of the most disinterested platonism. Finally, so long as mademoiselle remains under monsieur’s protection—I crave one thousand pardons!—under monsieur’s guardianship—she is to receive every ordinary consideration as to service and meals.”
He flourished his hands outwards, and bowed, his curls bobbing like wood shavings.
“I shall have the honour to punctually acquit myself of these commissions. Monsieur need give himself no further concern in the matter.”