“Number twenty-seven.”
“What’s up?” replied Contenson, flying down again.
“Tell Papa that his daughter has come home; but, good God! in what a state. Tell him to come at once; she is dying.”
At the moment when Contenson re-entered the dining-room, old Peyrade, who had drunk a great deal, was swallowing the cherry off his ice. They were drinking to the health of Madame du Val-Noble; the nabob filled his glass with Constantia and emptied it.
In spite of his distress at the news he had to give Peyrade, Contenson was struck by the eager attention with which Paccard was looking at the nabob. His eyes sparkled like two fixed flames. Although it seemed important, still this could not delay the mulatto, who leaned over his master, just as Peyrade set his glass down.
“Lydie is at home,” said Contenson, “in a very bad state.”
Peyrade rattled out the most French of all French oaths with such a strong Southern accent that all the guests looked up in amazement. Peyrade, discovering his blunder, acknowledged his disguise by saying to Contenson in good French:
“Find me a coach—I’m off.”
Every one rose.
“Why, who are you?” said Lucien.