“Why, not at all! you see that we do not stand on ceremony.”
As Madame Glumeau was about to leave the salon, the door opened, and an old and exceedingly ugly man in blue spectacles entered, escorting a tall and well-built young lady, dressed with affected elegance, and endowed with one of those faces that never change.
“Monsieur and Mademoiselle Camuzard!” cried Madame Glumeau, turning back to welcome the newcomers. “How good of you to come early! Pray come in.—Edouard, here are Monsieur Camuzard and Mademoiselle Polymnie.”
Edouard had gone to examine his complexion in the mirror; when he saw that more guests had arrived, he uttered a hollow groan, then did his utmost to assume a smiling countenance, saying to himself:
“I shall never be able to take my enema! this is getting to be very alarming!”
Mademoiselle Polymnie had in her hand a huge bouquet, which she presented to Glumeau, saying:
“Monsieur, will you allow me to wish you a happy birthday?”
“To be sure, mademoiselle, with the greatest pleasure; I am deeply touched. What a superb bouquet! You are too kind.”
“Sapristi! how sorry I am that we didn’t bring one!” exclaimed Dufournelle again, while his wife laughed heartily as she looked at the pictures on the music and at Mademoiselle Camuzard.
“How is your health, my dear Glumeau?” inquired the old gentleman, shaking his host’s hand violently.