The door was at this moment opened quietly, and Van Klopen appeared on the threshold. He was about forty-four, and too stout for his height. His red, pimply face had an expression upon it of extreme insolence, and his accent was thoroughly Dutch. He was dressed in a ruby velvet dressing-gown, with a cravat with lace ends. A huge cluster-diamond ring blazed on his coarse, red hand.
“Who is the next one?” asked he, rudely.
The lady who had been talking so volubly rose to her feet, but the tailor cut her short, for catching sight of Mascarin, he crossed the room, and greeted him with the utmost cordiality.
“What!” said he; “is it you that I have been keeping waiting? Pray pardon me. Pray go into my private room; and this gentleman is with you? Do me the favor, sir, to come with us.”
He was about to follow his guests, when one of the ladies started forward.
“One word with you, sir, for goodness sake!” cried she.
Van Klopen turned sharply upon her.
“What is the matter?” asked he.
“My bill for three thousand francs falls due to-morrow.”
“Very likely.”