He fell into a chair, snatched off his cap, unbuckled his cloak, and shook his feet to rid himself of his top-boots, and as they were far too large, he sent one in the face of the countryman who had been waiting so long for him, and whom, in his hurried home-coming, he had not noticed.
The little thickset man, who was staring at Chamoureau with wide-open eyes, like a fisherman who thinks that he sees something at the end of his line, seemed far from pleased at receiving the Louis XIII boot in his face, and cried out:
"Well, look here, you—Carnival—do you take my face for a boot-jack? What sort of an animal is this, anyway?"
Thereupon the business agent, perceiving that there was a man seated in one corner of the room, made him a low bow.
"I beg pardon, monsieur, a thousand pardons; I didn't see you.—Madame Monin, my slippers, at once. What does monsieur wish?"
"What I wish is to speak to the master of the house, the business man—because I have business—and it ain't a small matter either—to put in his hands."
"I, monsieur, am the master of the house, Chamoureau,—at your service. We will step into my office, when I have my slippers and dressing gown.—Come, Madame Monin."
"I'm looking for 'em, monsieur, but I don't know where you've hid 'em; I can't put my hand on 'em."
"What's that! is that the truth? you're the business agent?" said the countryman, scrutinizing Chamoureau from head to foot.
"To be sure, monsieur, I am the man."