The servant laughed heartily. “This is certainly his house,” he replied, “and strange to say, by some fortunate chance, he’s here.”
“I wish to speak with him on business.”
The servant called one of his colleagues. “Eh! Florestan—is the baron receiving?”
“The baroness hasn’t forbidden it.”
This seemed to satisfy the footman; for, turning to Pascal he said: “In that case, you can follow me.”
II.
The sumptuous interior of the Trigault mansion was on a par with its external magnificence. Even the entrance bespoke the lavish millionaire, eager to conquer difficulties, jealous of achieving the impossible, and never haggling when his fancies were concerned. The spacious hall, paved with costly mosaics, had been transformed into a conservatory full of flowers, which were renewed every morning. Rare plants climbed the walls up gilded trellis work, or hung from the ceiling in vases of rare old china, while from among the depths of verdure peered forth exquisite statues, the work of sculptors of renown. On a rustic bench sat a couple of tall footmen, as bright in their gorgeous liveries as gold coins fresh from the mint; still, despite their splendor, they were stretching and yawning to such a degree, that it seemed as if they would ultimately dislocate their jaws and arms.
“Tell me,” inquired the servant who was escorting Pascal, “can any one speak to the baron?”
“Why?”