“Are there any letters from Dunkirk, Rodin?” inquired his master.
“Post not yet in.”
“Without being positively uneasy as to my mother’s health, since she was already convalescent,” resumed the other, “I shall only be quite reassured by a letter from my excellent friend, the Princess de Saint Dizier. I shall have good news this morning, I hope.”
“It is to be desired,” said the secretary, as humble and submissive as he was laconic and impassible.
“Certainly it is to be desired,” resumed his master; “for one of the brightest days of my life was when the Princess de Saint-Dizier announced to me that this sudden and dangerous illness had yielded to the care and attention with which she surrounds my mother. Had it not been for that I must have gone down to her instantly, though my presence here is very necessary.”
Then, approaching the desk, he added: “Is the summary of the foreign correspondence complete?”
“Here is the analysis.”
“The letters are still sent under envelope to the places named, and are then brought here as I directed?”
“Always.”
“Read to me the notes of this correspondence; if there are any letters for me to answer, I will tell you.” And Rodin’s master began to walk up and down the room, with his hands crossed behind his back, dictating observations of which Rodin took careful note.