“Monsieur, do you mean to take these securities?” asked Celestin, showing him the notes of the umbrella-maker.
“Yes; at six per cent, without commission. Wife, get my dressing things all ready; I am going to see Monsieur Vauquelin,—you know why. A white cravat, of course.”
Birotteau gave a few orders to the clerks. Not seeing Popinot, he concluded that his future partner had gone to dress; and he went gaily up to his room, where the Dresden Madonna, magnificently framed according to his orders, awaited him.
“Hey! that’s pretty,” he said to his daughter.
“Papa, you must say beautiful, or people will laugh at you.”
“Upon my word! a daughter who scolds her father! Well, well! To my taste I like Hero and Leander quite as much. The Virgin is a religious subject, suitable for a chapel; but Hero and Leander, ah! I shall buy it, for that flask of oil gave me an idea—”
“Papa, I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Virginie! a hackney-coach!” cried Cesar, in stentorian tones, as soon as he had trimmed his beard and seen little Popinot appear, who was dragging his foot timidly because Cesarine was there.
The lover had never yet perceived that his infirmity no longer existed in the eyes of his mistress. Delicious sign of love!—which they on whom chance has inflicted a bodily imperfection can alone obtain.
“Monsieur,” he said, “the press will be ready to work to-morrow.”