And, after paying, he led them out. Octave reminded him of old Josserand. That did not matter, they would come back for him.
Then, after leaving the room, the uncle, casting a furious glance around, stole the sugar left by a customer on a neighboring table.
“Follow me,” said he, when he was outside. “It’s close by.”
He walked along, grave and thoughtful, without uttering a word. He drew up before a door in the Rue Saint-Marc. The three young men were about to follow him, when he appeared to give way to a sudden hesitation.
“No, let us go off, I won’t.”
But they cried out at this. Was he trying to make fools of them?
“Well! Gueulin mustn’t come up, nor you either, Monsieur Trublot. You’re not nice enough, you respect nothing, you’d joke. Come, Monsieur Octave, you’re a serious sort of fellow.”
He made Octave walk up before him, whilst the other two laughed, and called to him from the pavement to give their compliments to the ladies. On reaching the fourth floor, he knocked, and an old woman opened the door.
“What! it’s you, Monsieur Narcisse? Fifi did not expect you this evening,” said she, with a smile.
She was fat, with the calm, white face of a nun. In the narrow dining-room into which she ushered them, a tall, fair young girl, pretty and simple looking, was embroidering an altar cloth.