“He is the inspector of the Louvre roofs,” Poufaille said to Phil. “I am well acquainted with him. I see him every day.”
Phil opened his eyes wide; everything was new to him. From his seat he had also a view of the bar alongside. While Mère Michel served in the room of the artistes, Père Michel stretched out his immense bulk behind the counter.
“That man he’s serving is the lackey of the Duke of Morgania,” observed Suzanne.
“Does the Duke of Morgania live near here?” Phil interrupted. He had read the name in the newspapers.
“Almost opposite,” Suzanne answered.
“Ah!” Phil said, with the same shade of respect which he had shown before the empty seat of Socrate, never dreaming that he would one day be the friend of both the grand seigneur and the poet-philosopher.
Just then Socrate entered. Poufaille nudged Phil with his elbow. Phil looked. He saw Socrate seat himself in his corner, call the garçon, order three or four dishes and a liter of wine, hurriedly, at haphazard, like a man overwhelmed with thought and with no time to lose.
“He’s begun a work on the Louvre—something tremendous!” Poufaille informed Phil.
“What is it like?” Phil asked.
“No one knows!”