“Yes, it’s I.”
“What brings you here so early?”
“You shall learn; but first let me in; I don’t like to talk through a door.”
“I beg your pardon—you see, I’m in my nightshirt.”
“Bah! what difference does it make to me, whether you’re in your nightshirt, or naked, or fully dressed? I have no desire to examine your person. Open the door! then you can go back to bed; that won’t interfere with my talking to you.”
“You see, I passed most of the night writing birthday rhymes; and I am still sleepy.”
“Oh! morbleu! Monsieur Raymond, open the door, or I’ll break it down!”
The tone in which I uttered the last words indicated a purpose to carry out my threat. He did not wait for me to repeat it, but opened the door, and, running back through his little reception room, jumped into bed, where he wrapped himself up in the bedclothes, leaving nothing exposed but his nose and his great eyes, which he turned from side to side with an air of uneasiness, not venturing to look at me. I followed; the first thing I saw on entering his bedroom was a dozen or more bunches of orange blossoms, like those Nicette used to leave at my door; they were symmetrically arranged on my neighbor’s dressing table. That sight tore my heart, but I had promised myself to be philosophical, so I sat down beside Raymond’s bed and tried to speak very calmly.
“How are you this morning, Monsieur Raymond?”
He gazed at me in amazement.