While making these reflections, Chaudoreille had taken his course toward the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, arriving at the little house at eight o'clock in the evening. He rang nearly as loudly as the marquis, and Marcel on opening the door to him said,—
"You make as much noise as monseigneur."
"Apparently it is because I have a right to do so," responded the Gascon, entering with an impertinent manner; then, striding across the garden, he went immediately into the dining-room and threw himself on a seat, saying,—
"Has my friend, the marquis, been here since yesterday?"
"Your friend, the marquis," answered Marcel, opening his eyes wide.
"Why, yes, caitiff! Or the marquis, my friend, if that pleases you better."
"Nobody has been here."
"And has he sent nothing for me?"
"Nothing."
"I must wait for him then. Serve supper quickly for me, all that you have of the best, some of your oldest wines, some liqueur. Come! go about it, in place of standing and looking at me like a statue."