When he had composed his prospectus and made his estimates, he went to the factory to see Risler, who, being very busy, made an appointment to meet him in the Rue Blondel; and that same evening, Delobelle, being the first to arrive at the brewery, established himself at their old table, ordered a pitcher of beer and two glasses, and waited.  He waited a long while, with his eye on the door, trembling with impatience.  Whenever any one entered, the actor turned his head.  He had spread his papers on the table, and pretended to be reading them, with animated gestures and movements of the head and lips.

It was a magnificent opportunity, unique in its way.  He already fancied himself acting—­for that was the main point—­acting, in a theatre of his own, roles written expressly for him, to suit his talents, in which he would produce all the effect of—­

Suddenly the door opened, and M. Chebe made his appearance amid the pipe-smoke.  He was as surprised and annoyed to find Delobelle there as Delobelle himself was by his coming.  He had written to his son-in-law that morning that he wished to speak with him on a matter of very serious importance, and that he would meet him at the brewery.  It was an affair of honor, entirely between themselves, from man to man.  The real fact concerning this affair of honor was that M. Chebe had given notice of his intention to leave the little house at Montrouge, and had hired a shop with an entresol in the Rue du Mail, in the midst of a business district.  A shop?  Yes, indeed!  And now he was a little alarmed regarding his hasty step, anxious to know how his son-in-law would take it, especially as the shop cost much more than the Montrouge house, and there were some repairs to be made at the outset.  As he had long been acquainted with his son-in-law’s kindness of heart, M. Chebe had determined to appeal to him at once, hoping to lead him into his game and throw upon him the responsibility for this domestic change.  Instead of Risler he found Delobelle.

They looked askance at each other, with an unfriendly eye, like two dogs meeting beside the same dish.  Each divined for whom the other was waiting, and they did not try to deceive each other.

“Isn’t my son-in-law here?” asked M. Chebe, eying the documents spread over the table, and emphasizing the words “my son-in-law,” to indicate that Risler belonged to him and to nobody else.

“I am waiting for him,” Delobelle replied, gathering up his papers.

He pressed his lips together, as he added with a dignified, mysterious, but always theatrical air: 

“It is a matter of very great importance.”

“So is mine,” declared M. Chebe, his three hairs standing erect like a porcupine’s quills.

As he spoke, he took his seat on the bench beside Delobelle, ordered a pitcher and two glasses as the former had done, then sat erect with his hands in his pockets and his back against the wall, waiting in his turn.  The two empty glasses in front of them, intended for the same absentee, seemed to be hurling defiance at each other.