“I do not want a seat!” said Schleifmann, who was holding himself in hand. “I am asking you to take my card to M. Pums, and at once, do you hear?”
“Impossible, sir.... Monsieur le sous-Directeur is attending a conference. He has given orders that no one should come in until he rings....” Then he added, pointing to the gathered agents and brokers: “Besides, all these gentlemen here are ahead of you.”
“I do know whether these gentlemen ...” and here the Galicia voice became more haughty, “are ahead of me.... But I ask you once more to hand my card.... You will tell M. Pums that it is a serious matter, that a ma life is in danger.”
The usher stared impudently at Schleifmann. That dramatic language, that silk hat brushed away, that tie all in disorder, and that foreign accent—some poor devil, some Jewish beggar, no doubt. He did not even condescend to answer and took up his reading again.
“I say, did you hear me?” stammered Schleifmann, incensed by so much insolence. “Yes or no, are you going to take my card in?”
“When M. Pums rings, sir!” the usher reiterated, curling his mustache, his body still bent towards the paper. “I cannot go before he does.”
“You cannot!” Schleifmann almost shouted. “Very good! We shall see....”
He walked towards a tall door painted brown which he supposed to be that of Pums’ office.
“Where are you going?” the usher asked, barring his advance with outstretched arms.
The Galician gave a sharp push of his shoulders and threw the man aside. “I go where it pleases me! Get out of here, damn you!”