"What do I owe to this gentleman that I should be polite to him? If he wants me, he can come to me."
Deslauriers, however, forced him to go to Frederick's reunion.
They found their friend in his bedroom. Spring-roller blinds and double curtains, Venetian mirrors—nothing was wanting there. Frederick, in a velvet vest, was lying back on an easy-chair, smoking cigarettes of Turkish tobacco.
Sénécal wore the gloomy look of a bigot arriving in the midst of a pleasure-party.
Deslauriers gave him a single comprehensive glance; then, with a very low bow:
"Monseigneur, allow me to pay my respects to you!"
Dussardier leaped on his neck. "So you are a rich man now. Ah! upon my soul, so much the better!"
Cisy made his appearance with crape on his hat. Since the death of his grandmother, he was in the enjoyment of a considerable fortune, and was less bent on amusing himself than on being distinguished from others—not being the same as everyone else—in short, on "having the proper stamp." This was his favourite phrase.
However, it was now midday, and they were all yawning.
Frederick was waiting for some one.