CHAPTER XXIX. THE DEN.
Rodin’s countenance, when he entered Mother Arsene’s shop, was expressive of the most simple candor. He leaned his hands on the knob of his umbrella, and said: “I much regret, my good lady, that I roused you so early this morning.”
“You do not come often enough, my dear sir, for me to find fault with you.”
“How can I help it, my good lady? I live in the country, and only come hither from time to time to settle my little affairs.”
“Talking of that sir, the letter you expected yesterday has arrived this morning. It is large, and comes from far. Here it is,” said the greengrocer, drawing it from her pocket; “it cost nothing for postage.”
“Thank you, my dear lady,” said Rodin, taking the letter with apparent indifference, and putting it into the side-pocket of his great-coat, which he carefully buttoned over.
“Are you going up to your rooms, sir?”
“Yes, my good, lady.”
“Then I will get ready your little provisions,” said Mother Arsene; “as usual, I suppose, my dear sir?”
“Just as usual.”