As she spoke, she pulled a bell that communicated with the room of Madame Moufflon, the portress, who promptly responded to the summons.
"Madame Moufflon, some one will call to see me this morning, and you are to admit the visitor," said Herminie.
"If it is a lady, of course. I understand."
"But it is not a lady who will call this morning," replied Herminie, with some embarrassment.
"It is not a lady? Then it must be that little hunchback I have orders to admit at any time, I suppose."
"No, Madame Moufflon, it is not M. de Maillefort, but a young man."
"A young man?" exclaimed the portress, "a young man? Well, this is the first time—"
"The young man will tell you his name. It is Olivier."
"Olivier? That is not hard to remember. I'll just think of olives; I adore them! Olivier, olives, olive oil—it is very nearly the very same thing. I sha'n't forget it. But, by the way, speaking—not of young men, for this old serpent isn't young—I saw that old scoundrel hanging around the house again last evening."
"Again?" exclaimed Herminie, with a look of scorn and disgust at the thought of Ravil.