“I don’t suppose that that makes it impossible for you to beat up the wood?”
“Oh, no! on the contrary, madame, it was I who suggested that measure of safety. I propose to see the wolf, madame.”
“You will do well, monsieur.”
The conversation was interrupted by a noise in the next room.
“Ah! here’s our dear Dalville at last, no doubt,” said Monsieur Destival.
Madame said nothing, but she prepared a little pouting expression which would surely imply what she thought. Meanwhile the person whom they had heard did not enter the room, but continued to rub his feet on the doormat. Monsieur Destival threw the door of the salon open, and found, instead of Auguste, a little man of some fifty-five years, with a light wig, broad-brimmed straw hat, coat cut almost square, short breeches, and fancy stockings, who was rubbing and rerubbing his feet on the mat in the reception room.
“Ah! it’s our neighbor, Monsieur Monin!” said Monsieur Destival, at sight of the little man.
At the name of Monin, Madame Destival made an impatient gesture, muttering:
“What a bore! why need he have come!”
“Hush! be still, madame! He still has a drug store to sell, and he wants to buy a house. I propose that he shall dine with us.”