When Boutan thrust open the office door he saw that Madame Broquette was busy with an old gentleman, who sat there inspecting a party of nurses.  She recognized the doctor, and made a gesture of regret.  “No matter, no matter,” he exclaimed; “I am not in a hurry:  I will wait.”

Through the open door Mathieu had caught sight of Mademoiselle Herminie, the daughter of the house, ensconced in one of the red velvet armchairs near the window, and dreamily perusing a novel there, while her mother, standing up, extolled her goods in her most dignified way to the old gentleman, who gravely contemplated the procession of nurses and seemed unable to make up his mind.

“Let us have a look at the garden,” said the doctor, with a laugh.

One of the boasts of the establishment, indeed, as set forth in its prospectus, was a garden and a tree in it, as if there were plenty of good air there, as in the country.  They opened the glass door, and on a bench near the tree they saw a plump girl, who doubtless had just arrived, pretending to clean a squealing infant.  She herself looked sordid, and had evidently not washed since her journey.  In one corner there was an overflow of kitchen utensils, a pile of cracked pots and greasy and rusty saucepans.  Then, at the other end, a French window gave access to the nurses’ waiting-room, and here again there was a nauseous spectacle of dirt and untidiness.

All at once Monsieur Broquette darted forward, though whence he had come it was hard to say.  At all events, he had seen Boutan, who was a client that needed attention.  “Is my wife busy, then?” said he.  “I cannot allow you to remain waiting here, doctor.  Come, come, I pray you.”

With his little ferreting eyes he had caught sight of the dirty girl cleaning the child, and he was anxious that his visitors should see nothing further of a character to give them a bad impression of the establishment.  “Pray, doctor, follow me,” he repeated, and understanding that an example was necessary, he turned to the girl, exclaiming, “What business have you to be here?  Why haven’t you gone upstairs to wash and dress?  I shall fling a pailful of water in your face if you don’t hurry off and tidy yourself.”

Then he forced her to rise and drove her off, all scared and terrified, in front of him.  When she had gone upstairs he led the two gentlemen to the office entrance and began to complain:  “Ah! doctor, if you only knew what trouble I have even to get those girls to wash their hands!  We who are so clean! who put all our pride in keeping the house clean.  If ever a speck of dust is seen anywhere it is certainly not my fault.”

Since the girl had gone upstairs a fearful tumult had arisen on the upper floors, whence also a vile smell descended.  Some dispute, some battle, seemed to be in progress.  There were shouts and howls, followed by a furious exchange of vituperation.

“Pray excuse me,” at last exclaimed Monsieur Broquette; “my wife will receive you in a minute.”