My concierge had a most amusing way of doing even the simplest things with an air of great importance and mystery. She handed me the paper, accompanying it with a reverence which meant a great number of things. Noticing that the letter was folded simply, not sealed, I concluded that she knew its contents; and judging from her manner, they must be of serious import.
“Who gave you this, Madame Dupont?”
“Monsieur Raymond.”
“My neighbor?”
“Yes, monsieur; and he told me to bring him your answer.”
“Let us see what he has to say.”
“MONSIEUR DORSAN:
“We must have a serious explanation with regard to the dinner of the day before yesterday. The matter cannot be settled elsewhere than in the Bois de Boulogne, where I shall expect you to-day between noon and one o’clock. I shall be alone; do you come alone. I believe you to be too honorable a man to fail to be on hand. I shall be near Porte Maillot.
“RAYMOND.”
I laughed like a madman when I read this epistle. Madame Dupont, whom Raymond doubtless had told that we were going to fight, seemed amazed at my hilarity, and asked me what answer she should give him.