"What sort of a man?" asked Canalis.
"He is well-dressed, and wears the ribbon of the Legion of honor."
Canalis made a sign of assent, and the valet retreated, and then
returned and announced, "Monsieur Dumay."
When he heard himself announced, when he was actually in presence of
Canalis, in a study as gorgeous as it was elegant, with his feet on a
carpet far handsomer than any in the house of Mignon, and when he met
the studied glance of the poet who was playing with the tassels of a
sumptuous dressing-gown, Dumay was so completely taken aback that he
allowed the great poet to have the first word.
"To what do I owe the honor of your visit, monsieur?"
"Monsieur," began Dumay, who remained standing.
"If you have a good deal to say," interrupted Canalis, "I must ask you
to be seated."
And Canalis himself plunged into an armchair a la Voltaire, crossed
his legs, raised the upper one to the level of his eye and looked
fixedly at Dumay, who became, to use his own martial slang,
"bayonetted."
"I am listening, monsieur," said the poet; "my time is precious,--the
ministers are expecting me.
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