“I don’t know.”
“As concierge, you should know.”
“You’d petter ask mein vife.”
The sound of Dalville’s carriage wheels put an end to the conversation. Schtrack went down to his quarters, and Bertrand tried to assume a sedate air with which to receive his master.
“Here I am, my dear Bertrand,” said Auguste, as he entered his apartment; “I passed a delightful day yesterday. Oh! don’t scold me; I was virtuous—that is, so far as circumstances allowed me to be. Has anybody been here during my absence?”
“Yes, monsieur: in the first place, Mademoiselle Virginie.”
“Poor Virginie! she must be angry with me for neglecting her for more than three weeks.”
“She says that she shall die of grief.”
“Oh! she has said that to me so often!”
“She breakfasted here; she ate cold fowl and pie.”