The glance of the latter, showed authority over his adept, in whom a practised eye would at once have recognized the joyous pupil of a painter, called in the argot of the studios a “rapin.”

“Behave yourself, Mistigris,” said his master, giving him the nickname which the studio had no doubt bestowed upon him.

The master was a slight and pale young man, with extremely thick black hair, worn in a disorder that was actually fantastic.  But this abundant mass of hair seemed necessary to an enormous head, whose vast forehead proclaimed a precocious intellect.  A strained and harassed face, too original to be ugly, was hollowed as if this noticeable young man suffered from some chronic malady, or from privations caused by poverty (the most terrible of all chronic maladies), or from griefs too recent to be forgotten.  His clothing, analogous, with due allowance, to that of Mistigris, consisted of a shabby surtout coat, American-green in color, much worn, but clean and well-brushed; a black waistcoat buttoned to the throat, which almost concealed a scarlet neckerchief; and trousers, also black and even more worn than the coat, flapping his thin legs.  In addition, a pair of very muddy boots indicated that he had come on foot and from some distance to the coach office.  With a rapid look this artist seized the whole scene of the Lion d’Argent, the stables, the courtyard, the various lights and shades, and the details; then he looked at Mistigris, whose satirical glance had followed his own.

“Charming!” said Mistigris.

“Yes, very,” replied the other.

“We seem to have got here too early,” pursued Mistigris.  “Couldn’t we get a mouthful somewhere?  My stomach, like Nature, abhors a vacuum.”

“Have we time to get a cup of coffee?” said the artist, in a gentle voice, to Pierrotin.

“Yes, but don’t be long,” answered the latter.

“Good; that means we have a quarter of an hour,” remarked Mistigris, with the innate genius for observation of the Paris rapin.

The pair disappeared.  Nine o’clock was striking in the hotel kitchen.  Georges thought it just and reasonable to remonstrate with Pierrotin.

“Hey! my friend; when a man is blessed with such wheels as these (striking the clumsy tires with his cane) he ought at least to have the merit of punctuality.  The deuce! one doesn’t get into that thing for pleasure; I have business that is devilishly pressing or I wouldn’t trust my bones to it.  And that horse, which you call Rougeot, he doesn’t look likely to make up for lost time.”

“We are going to harness Bichette while those gentlemen take their coffee,” replied Pierrotin.  “Go and ask, you,” he said to his porter, “if Pere Leger is coming with us—­”

“Where is your Pere Leger?” asked Georges.

“Over the way, at number 50.  He couldn’t get a place in the Beaumont diligence,” said Pierrotin, still speaking to his porter and apparently making no answer to his customer; then he disappeared himself in search of Bichette.