"Hallo, papa's next door," he would exclaim with a grimace which he borrowed from the actors then in favour.
And he would go and knock at the door of the private room, anxious to see his father's conquest.
"Ah! it's you?" Saccard would say in a gay tone, "come in. You make enough noise to prevent one from hearing oneself eat. Who are you with then?"
"Why, there's Laure d'Aurigny, Sylvia, the Crawfish, and two others, I fancy. They are awfully funny. They poke their fingers in the dishes and chuck handfuls of salad at our heads. My coat is all greasy with oil."
The father would laugh, thinking this very funny.
"Ah! young folks, young folks," he would mutter. "That isn't like us, is it, my little kitten? We have dined very quietly and now we are going to by-by."
And he would chuck the chin of the woman whom he had beside him, and coo with his Provençal snuffle, which produced strange music for a lover.
"Oh! the old noodle!" the woman would cry. "Good-day, Maxime. Mustn't I love you, eh! to consent to dine with your scamp of a father—One never sees you now. Come early on the day after to-morrow morning. No, really, I've something to tell you."
Saccard would finish eating an ice or some fruit, beatifically, taking small mouthfuls. Then he would kiss the woman's shoulder, saying humorously:
"You know, my ducks, if I'm in the way, I'll leave the room. You can ring the bell when you are ready for me to come in again."