"Yes, m'sieur. It is perhaps that M'sieur Philippe has spoken of me?" He looked anxiously at Sir Maurice.
"Certainly he has spoken of you," smiled Sir Maurice.
"It is perhaps—that he tell you I am un petit singe?"
"No, he said no such thing," answered Sir Maurice gravely. "He told me he possessed a veritable treasure for a valet."
"Ah!" François clapped his hands. "It is true, m'sieur. I am a very good valet—oh, but very good!" He skipped to the bed and picked up an embroidered satin vest. This he laid over a chair-back.
"The vest of M'sieur Philippe," he said reverently.
"So I see," said Sir Maurice. "What's he doing, lying abed so late?"
"Ah, non, m'sieur! He does not lie abed late! Oh, but never, never. It is that the barber is here, and the tailor—imbeciles, both! They put M'sieur Philippe in a bad humour with their so terrible stupidity. He spends an hour explaining what it is that he wishes." François cast up his eyes. "And they do not understand, no! They are of so great a density! M'sieur Philippe he become much enraged, naturally."
"Monsieur Philippe is very particular, eh?"
François beamed. He was opening various pots in readiness for his master.