The hostess opened the purse, took out several gold pieces, counted on her fingers, then with a pen, and receipted her account, which she handed to the chevalier, with the purse, which was still well filled.
"That is all settled, Monsieur de Passedix. When you have time, you may make sure that the account is not padded by a single denier."
"Oh! Dame Cadichard! once more, what do you take me for?—I should be very sorry to look at this paper. See—this is how much I care for it!"
And Passedix tossed the account into a tiny fire that burned in a huge fireplace, whose feeble heat hardly changed the temperature, which was very cold outside.
Dame Cadichard, marvelling at the noble indifference with which her tenant paid his debts, said to him, with a respectful inclination of the head:
"Monsieur le chevalier, would you accept a plate of this soup? That will help you to wait for what you propose to send for to the wine shop."
"Oh, no! no, thanks!" cried Passedix, probably recalling the accident that had befallen the soup. "I have no desire to taste it.—May I not have Popelinette's services?"
"I beg pardon, monsieur le chevalier,—at once, instantly."
And Dame Cadichard, leaving her soup, left the room and went into the hall to call her servant in such shrill, imperative tones that old Popelinette soon came running in in dismay, crying:
"What's the matter? who's sick? where's the fire? Something must have happened!"