Ventrillon, with an air, peeled off five hundred-franc notes and one fifty from the huge packet the dignified little monsieur with the pince-nez had produced from his pockets, and presented them to Volland.
He who was accustomed to wearing a hat of eight reflections went bareheaded that evening to his garret.
“But,” reflected Ventrillon, “one never wears a hat to eat. Politeness forbids.” And that night he would dine extravagantly.
EIGHTH REFLECTION
At noon the next day Ventrillon woke from the long slumber of the well fed to a nervous knocking at his door.
“Who is there?” he roared angrily.
“Chut! Chut! But it is I,” loudly whispered the awed voice of the concierge. “There is a lady below——”
“Tell her I cannot see her.”
“But, monsieur, she says that she is the great Mademoiselle Belletaille of the Opéra Comique.”
Ventrillon started in alarm. Perhaps that astonishing woman had come with a gun.