“Husband of concierges—we have forgot the baths.”
“Mon Dieu, monsieur—yes.”
“They will be there to-morrow?”
“It will be there to-morrow, m’sieu.”
“They—my veteran—they! Two baths.”
“They shall be there, m’sieu.”
Horace ran down the stairs; called “Good-night!” and was gone.
The old man scratched his head:
“My God!” said he; “how these English are always washing! That will be two extra cans to carry up.”
That night as Hodendouche, the once Sergeant of cavalry, joined his plump little mate in the bed that took up the greater part of that small room in the gateway, on the ground floor where concierges have their habitation, he blew out the candle.