“Come, my husband of concierges,” cried Horace, “don’t let us weep. Light all the candles, and let us see what the room looks like——”
“But, monsieur, not all the candles?”
“Certainly! certainly!... This is the last rehearsal, my old veteran; they arrive to-morrow.... Light up, man—light up!”
The old man shuffled about the room in his thick felt slippers, setting candles aflame until the place was a blaze of light.
Horace’s eyes went over the details of the room.
“Those rogues sent a fresh new bed, eh? You saw to that, eh?”
“The sommier was as monsieur had ordered it—ab-so-lu-ment.” The old man stopped in the midst of lighting a last candle to point to the couch-ottoman that is the student’s lounge by day and bed by night.
Horace nodded:
“Good!... The rest of the furniture, though not too profuse, looks far from too new. We showed taste in our choice, my old veteran. Now, you will not forget your lesson? Monsieur Horace has sent what he did not want from his own studio; but there was no stove nor towels, and you have taken the liberty to buy a stove and a dozen towels which were a bargain and they only cost you twelve francs! God forgive me! You have it all in your head, all under that embroidered cap, my husband of concierges, eh?”
The old man bowed, shrugged his shoulders, and held out his open palms in the protest of indignation: