“Hullo! it’s Monsieur Georget. Morning, Monsieur Georget! What you come here for so early?”
“Monsieur Pongo, I would like to speak to your master, Monsieur Malberg.”
“Oh! master not up yet, he still sleep; I get up sooner, to tidy the room, rub floor here in the morning without waking master.”
“If he is still asleep, I will wait.”
“Yes, you sit down on a nice little chair, like this.”
“Thanks, Monsieur Pongo; I hope I am not in your way; go on with your work.”
“Yes, yes, then I go very soft and see if monsieur still sleep.”
The mulatto went into another room. Georget sat down and waited. After a few moments he heard voices in the next room and supposed that Monsieur Malberg was awake. But still he was left alone, nobody came, and Georget, beginning to be impatient, coughed, walked about the room and stole softly to the door, which was ajar. He was surprised to find that the mulatto was alone, but that as he did his work, he kept up a steady conversation with all the furniture and other objects in the study, which to him were people to whom he gave names, according to the custom of the people of his country.
“You stay there, Broubrou!” said Pongo to a tall Voltaire easy-chair. “You all right, you satisfied, all brushed, all cleaned, all ready for master to use, unless he take Babo, the little horsehair chair. Oh! Babo, you’d be mighty pleased if master took you instead of Madame Broubrou! she take up much more room.—There! now you all cleaned, well rubbed, good ‘nough to eat.—But I forget Zima; where you hide yourself, Zima? oh! no good for you to hide yourself, I know all right how to find you.”
And the mulatto looked in every corner of the room, and at last succeeded in finding a small bamboo cane with a gilt head. It was that cane to which Pongo had given the name of Zima. He took it up and shook it impatiently, muttering: