"Monsieur Amédé!" she shouted anew, but not even an echo responded.
"Mademoiselle Laure, ask for the head waiter."
Mademoiselle Laure recrossed the vestibule and opening a door diametrically opposed to the other, called:
"Monsieur Balthazard!"
Monsieur Balthazard appeared, his shirt sleeves rolled up beyond his elbow, wiping his hands on a blue gingham apron. He was a little slim man who may have been sixty years old. A glass eye gave him a sardonic, comic or astonished air, according to the way he used his good one, which was constantly moving, at the same time that it was clear and piercing.
"Monsieur Balthazard—what an attire for a head waiter!"
"Madame, I was just rinsing the wine barrels."
"And how about the errands for the people in rooms twenty-four and twenty-seven."
A noise at the hall door attracted our attention. It was as though some one were making desperate and fruitless attempts to open it.
"There he is now," exclaimed Monsieur Balthazard. "I'll go and let him in. He's probably got his hands full."