“Monsieur Roguin,” said Cesar, “I hope you told him that we should dine in a wretched little room on the entresol—”
“He thought it superb sixteen years ago,” murmured Constance.
“—among workmen and rubbish.”
“Bah! you will find him a good fellow, with no pretension,” said Roguin.
“I have put Raguet on guard in the shop. We can’t go through our own door; everything is pulled down.”
“Why did you not bring your nephew?” said Pillerault to Madame Ragon.
“Shall we not see him?” asked Cesarine.
“No, my love,” said Madame Ragon; “Anselme, dear boy, is working himself to death. That bad-smelling Rue des Cinq-Diamants, without sun and without air, frightens me. The gutter is always blue or green or black. I am afraid he will die of it. But when a young man has something in his head—” and she looked at Cesarine with a gesture which explained that the word head meant heart.
“Has he got his lease?” asked Cesar.
“Yesterday, before a notary,” replied Ragon. “He took the place for eighteen years, but they exacted six months’ rent in advance.”