“Well,” said Lavenne, “what luck?”
“The best, Monsieur Lavenne. He is in a good humour. He asked me all sorts of questions as to my mother, spoke of filial duty and gave me leave of absence for three days. He wishes to see you.”
Lavenne rose from the bed.
“Let us go at once, then,” said he, “before his good-humour changes. Lead the way, introduce me to him, and then say nothing more. I will do the talking.”
They left the room.
Monsieur Brujon’s office was situated on the same floor, that is to say, the basement.
It was a fairly large room, with an old bureau in one corner, where Monsieur Brujon kept his receipted bills, his correspondence, his keys and a hundred odds and ends that had no place in a bureau; old playbills, ballades, wine labels, a questionable book or two, corks, shoe-buckles and so forth.
He was a character, Monsieur Brujon. Untidy as his bureau, stout, rubicund, with a fatherly manner and an eye for a pretty girl, he was a fine example of the old French servant that flourished in feudal times, the servant who became a part of the family, drank his master’s wine, knew his master’s secrets, and through other servants of his kind the secrets of half the town or countryside where he lived.
“Ah,” said Brujon, “this is the young man who has come to take your place. He has some knowledge of his work, then?”
“Yes, monsieur.”