But Seraphin’s thoughts were fixed on the food for the body.
“You make no jest with me, Maurice?”
“Jest with you? I jest with you? No, my friend. I do not jest when I invite a guest to dine with me.”
“I comprehend,” said Dieudonné; “but who is to be the host?”
At that question, Pasbeaucoup rose from his chair, and Madame, his wife, tried to thrust her nose, which was too short to reach, through the bars of her cage. The composer struck a chord on his breast and bowed.
“True: the host,” said he. “I had forgotten. I have found a veritable patron of my art. He has had the room above mine for two years, and I did not once before suspect him. He is an American of the United States.”
Madame’s contralto shook her prison bars:
“There is no American that can appreciate art.”
“True, Madame,” admitted Houdon, bowing profoundly; “there is no American that can appreciate art, and there is no American millionaire that can help patronizing it.”
“Eh, he is a millionaire, then, this American?” demanded Madame, audibly mollified.