The valet de chambre smiled, and shook a bunch of keys musically in the air. He had the keys to the cellar; he had all the keys. He was the trusted servant of the house.
"Say, will you lend them to me?" I asked, by way of a joke.
Giving me a tender look, he answered:
"Yes, if you are nice with Baby. You will have to be nice with Baby."
Oh! he was a chic man, and he knew how to talk to women. He had an English name,—William. What a pretty name!
During the meal, which lasted for some time, the old butler did not say a word, but ate and drank a great deal. They paid no attention to him, and he seemed a little dopy. As for William, he was charming, gallant, and assiduous; he paid me delicate attentions under the table; and, when we were drinking our coffee, he offered me Russian cigarettes, of which his pockets were full. Then, drawing me to him,—the tobacco had made me a little dizzy, and I was a little drunk too, and my hair was disarranged,—he seated me upon his knees, and whispered audacious things in my ear. Oh! but he was bold!
Eugénie, the cook, did not seem scandalized by these remarks and these performances. Anxious and dreamy, she kept her neck continually inclined toward the door, pricked up her ears at the slightest sound, as if she were expecting some one, and, with a very uncertain eye, kept on guzzling wine, glass after glass. She was a woman of about forty-five, with a large bust, fleshy, sensual lips, languishing and passionate eyes, and an air of great kindness mingled with melancholy. At last there came a discreet knock at the door. Eugénie's face lighted up; she rose with a bound, and went to open the door. Not being familiar with the habits of this servants' hall, I wanted to assume a more decorous attitude, but William held me more tightly than before, pressing me close against him with a firm embrace.
"That's nothing," he remarked, quietly. "That is the little one."
Meantime a young man had entered, almost a child. Very slender, very blonde, with a very white skin underlying the dark beginnings of a beard, scarcely eighteen, he was as pretty as a love. He wore an entirely new and elegant jacket, which set off his trim and slender bust, and a pink cravat. He was the son of the janitor in the next house. He came, it seems, every evening. Eugénie adored him, was mad over him. Every day she put aside, in a big basket, tureens full of bouillon, fine slices of meat, bottles of wine, cakes, and delicious fruits, which the little one carried to his parents.
"Why are you so late to-night?" asked Eugénie.