He asked: 

“Is M. Duchoux at home?”

He had many years ago, in the mocking spirit of a skeptical man of pleasure, given this name to the foundling, in order that it might not be forgotten that he had been picked up under a cabbage.

The servant-girl asked: 

“Do you want M. Duchoux?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he is in the big room drawing up his plans.”

“Tell him that M. Merlin wishes to speak to him.”

She replied, in amazement: 

“Hey! go inside then, if you want to see him.”

And she bawled out: 

“Monsieur Duchoux—­a call.”

The baron entered, and in a spacious apartment, rendered dark by the windows being half-closed, he indistinctly traced out persons and things, which appeared to him very slovenly looking.

Standing in front of a table laden with articles of every sort, a little bald man was tracing lines on a large sheet of paper.

He interrupted his work, and advanced two steps.  His waistcoat left open, his unbuttoned breeches, and his turned-up shirt-sleeves, indicated that he felt hot, and his muddy shoes showed that it had rained hard some days before.

He asked with a very pronounced southern accent: 

“Whom have I the honor of—?”

“Monsieur Merlin—­I came to consult you about a purchase of building-ground.”

“Ha! ha! very well!”

And Duchoux, turning towards his wife, who was knitting in the shade: 

“Clear off a chair, Josephine.”

Mordiane then saw a young woman, who appeared already old, as women look old at twenty-five in the provinces, for want of attention to their persons, regular washing, and all the little cares bestowed on feminine toilet which make them fresh, and preserve, till the age of fifty, the charm and beauty of the sex.  With a neckerchief over her shoulders, her hair clumsily braided—­though it was lovely hair, thick and black, you could see that it was badly brushed—­she stretched out towards a chair hands like those of a servant, and removed an infant’s robe, a knife, a fag-end of packe-bread, an empty flower-pot, and a greasy plate left on the seat, which she then moved over towards the visitor.

He sat down, and presently noticed that Duchoux’s work-table had on it, in addition to the books and papers, two salads recently gathered, a wash-hand basin, a hair-brush, a napkin, a revolver, and a number of cups which had not been cleaned.

The architect perceived this look, and said with a smile: 

“Excuse us! there is a little disorder in the room—­it is owing to the children.”

And he drew across his chair, in order to chat with his client.

“So then you are looking out for a piece of ground in the neighborhood of Marseilles?”

His breath, though not close to the baron, carried towards the latter that odor of garlic which the people of the South exhale as flowers do their perfume.