“The fit is perfect,” he said, “though I had hoped for a better quality. But—I have no time to waste. You will place it on my account.” He turned to walk out of the shop.
The clerk came hurriedly, but politely, from behind the counter, and modestly touched Ventrillon’s elbow.
“Then monsieur has an account here?” he inquired.
“Of course,” said Ventrillon, impatiently, and with his fingertips dusted the sleeve the clerk had touched. “And have I not told you that I have an important appointment?”
The clerk adroitly interposed himself between Ventrillon and the door.
“But I do not know the name of monsieur,” he persisted, always polite.
“You do not know who I am!” cried Ventrillon, as if the statement were proof positive of an utter imbecility he had already suspected.
“I am afraid not, sir,” faltered the clerk.
Then Ventrillon’s voice, a huge baritone absolutely astounding from a throat so young, roared out to its full, thundering in the clerk’s ears and frightening him half out of his wits:
“I am Odillon Ventrillon, name of God!” shouted Ventrillon.