"Mlle. Ernestine Vert-Puis."
"Madame Laîné."
These last two persons had come in a modest cab.
These duties performed, Madame Moufflon rejoined her employer, who was pacing vehemently to and fro, under the porte-cochère,—his forehead covered with big drops of sweat, so intense was his excitement,—saying to himself:
"Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! What can these great lords and ladies be doing in my pianist's room? What do you suppose all this means, Mother Moufflon?"
"I don't know what to think,—my brain fairly whirls. I see stars, and I'm so afraid of a stroke of apoplexy, I'm going to put my head under the water spigot to cool it off."
"I have it!" suddenly exclaimed the ex-grocer, triumphantly. "My pianist is giving a concert."
"I don't think so, for the last time I looked in I saw the ladies had laid their wraps on the piano, which was closed, and the entire company was standing in a row, while a notary—"
"What notary? Is there a notary here?"
"Yes, monsieur, the tall, stout man,—with a stomach twice as big as yours. I announced him as 'M. Leroi, notary.' Well, he was seated at Mlle. Herminie's table, with a pile of papers in front of him, and a candle on each side—like a juggler."