With that, Monsieur Destival turned back toward the door, where Monsieur Monin was still rubbing his feet on the mat.
“Well, aren’t you coming in, my dear Monsieur Monin? What in the deuce are you doing there all this time? It’s a fine day; you don’t need to wipe your feet.”
“Oh! but I’ll tell you: as I came across the courtyard I looked up at the sky to see if we were going to have a shower, and I stepped into a dung-heap that I didn’t see.”
“That’s Baptiste’s fault; it should have been taken away.”
“There, that will do.”
Monsieur Monin left the mat at last, and looking up at Monsieur Destival with a pair of big eyes level with his face, wherein one would have looked in vain for an idea, smiled a smile which cut his face in halves, although it was still dominated by a nose of enormous dimensions, always stuffed with snuff, like an unlighted pipe.
“How’s your health, neighbor?”
“Very good, my dear sir. Pray come in; my wife is here and will be delighted to see you.”
Monsieur Monin entered the salon and removed his hat, making a low bow to Madame Destival, who acknowledged the salute by a smile which might have passed for a grimace; but Monsieur Monin took it most favorably for himself, and began his inevitable question:
“How’s your health, madame?”