“Pardon, monsieur—husband of the concierge!”
Horace laughed:
“Husband of the concierge of concierges,” said he—and he held out a jewelled box of cigarettes—“we will smoke—to disinfect the room.”
The old shoulders rose in the shrug of protest:
“Good God, monsieur, the room is absolutely polished”—the shoulders swore it—“clean as a dish—not a grain of dust. I said it should be so. I did not trust the femme de ménage alone. I did it myself.”
Shoulders and arms and hands, all bore confirmatory evidence.
Horace nodded:
“Smoke,” said he. “It is an honour to smoke with so clean a husband of concierges.”
The old man laughed, shook his head, and shuffling to Horace’s side, took a cigarette:
“Ah, monsieur the student he is always gay—always gay. He has always his joke against his concierge.... I have known students for thirty years—and who would have it otherwise? When students fall away from joy of life they take to believing too much in themselves, and cross the river to Montmartre, and drink absinthe, and die, and are buried.”