"Is M. Destange at home?"
The butler eyed the person to whom he had opened the door of the house—the magnificent house at the corner of the Place Malesherbes and the Rue Montchanin—and, at the sight of the little gray-haired, ill-shaven man, whose long and far from immaculate frock-coat matched the oddity of a figure to which nature had been anything but kind, replied, with due scorn:
"M. Destange may be at home or he may be out. It depends. Has monsieur a card?"
Monsieur had no card, but he carried a letter of introduction and the butler had to take it to M. Destange, whereupon M. Destange ordered the newcomer to be shown in.
He was ushered into a large circular room, which occupied one of the wings of the house and which was lined with books all round the walls.
"Are you M. Stickmann?" asked the architect.
"Yes, sir."
"My secretary writes that he is ill and sends you to continue the general catalogue of my books, which he began under my direction, and of the German books in particular. Have you any experience of this sort of work?"
"Yes, sir, a long experience," replied Stickmann, in a strong Teutonic accent.
In these conditions, the matter was soon settled; and M. Destange set to work with his new secretary without further delay.