“M. Favoral!” he said. “By Jove! it is your good star that has brought you here. Come into the private office, my dear sir: come, we’ll have some fun now.”
Many of the people who were in the office had a word to say to M. Saint Pavin, some advice to ask him, an order to transmit, or some news to communicate. They had all stepped forward, and were holding out their hands with a friendly smile. He set them aside with his usual rudeness.
“By and by. I am busy now: leave me alone.”
And pushing Maxence towards the office-door, which he had just opened,
“Come in, come in!” he said in a tone of extraordinary impatience.
But M. de Tregars was coming in too; and, as he did not know him,
“What do you want, you?” he asked roughly.
“The gentleman is my best friend,” said Maxence, turning to him; “and I have no secret from him.”
“Let him walk in, then; but, by Heaven, let us hurry!”
Once very sumptuous, the private office of the editor of “The Financial Pilot” had fallen into a state of sordid dilapidation. If the janitor had received orders never to use a broom or a duster there, he obeyed them strictly. Disorder and dirt reigned supreme. Papers and manuscripts lay in all directions; and on the broad sofas the mud from the boots of all those who had lounged upon them had been drying for months. On the mantel-piece, in the midst of some half-dozen dirty glasses, stood a bottle of Madeira, half empty. Finally, before the fireplace, on the carpet, and along the furniture, cigar and cigarette stumps were heaped in profusion.