"Allow me, monseigneur, to tell you the new name of each one," said Férulus; and taking his stand before one after another, and pointing to them with a stick, as if he were exhibiting wax figures, he began with the concierge.
"This, monseigneur, is your concierge. Instead of Cunette, an unseemly name, which suggests a rebus, we will call him, with your permission, Custos, which, as you well know, is the Latin for guardian;—you hear, your name is Custos."
"My name is Cunette," cried the concierge; "and I maintain that it is a better name than your Cudechausse."
"I tell you it is Custos, you ignoramus."
"But——"
"Silence!—This, monseigneur, who is your gardener, is named Olitor, the real name of his profession. Olitor, present your spade."
"What nonsense is that you are talking?" said the gardener angrily; "my name is Vincent. What have you to say against that name? Do you suppose that at my age you are going to stuff a new one into my ears?"
"Olitor, my dear fellow, is very easy to say."
"Catch me answer that name! It’s a dog’s name."
"It’s a gardener’s name; just look in the dictionary."