"You must not have ten servants like him, Robineau,—they’d ruin you," said Alfred.
"Ah! you are my concierge, are you, my man?"
"Yes, master—monseigneur, I mean; for your valet told us it amused you to be called monseigneur—and it don’t make any difference to me, you know; I’ll call you whatever you say—that’s me!"
"I believe this knave is drunk!" said Robineau. "What is your name, concierge?"
"My name’s Cunette, master, saving your presence."
"You have been drinking a good deal, Monsieur Cunette, it seems to me!"
"Always to your health, my venerable lord and master—and all ready to begin again when you say the word."
"By the way, who prepares dinner here? I don’t see any cook anywhere."
"I can’t do everything," muttered the gardener; "the kitchen ain’t in the garden."
"Oh! it’s all the same to me," stammered the concierge, clutching the easy-chair once more; "if you’d like to have me, master, I’ll go into the kitchen and I’ll fix you up something as if it was for myself!"