“Ah!  It is you, Violate!  Good-day!  Good-day, Amedee!  You come at an unlucky time.  It is shipping-day with us.  I am in a great hurry—­Eh!  Monsieur Combier, by your leave, Monsieur Combier!  Do not forget the three dozen of the Apparition de la Salette in stucco for Grenoble, with twenty-five per cent. reduction upon the bill.  Are you working hard, Amedee?  What do you say?  He was first and assisted at the feast of St. Charlemagne!  So much the better!—­Jules, did you send the six chandeliers and the plated pyx and the Stations of the Cross, Number Two, to the Dames du Sacre-Coeur d’Alencons?  What, not yet?  But the order came three days ago!  You must hurry, I tell you!—­You can see, Violette, I am overflowing with work—­but come in here a moment.”

And once more ordering his bookkeeper, a captive in his glass case, to send the officers the notes that the cure of Sourdeval had allowed to go to protest, Uncle Isidore ushered M. Violette and his son into his office.

It was an ancient room, and M. Gaufre, who aimed at the austere, had made it gloomier still by a safe, and black haircloth furniture, which looked as if taken from a vestryroom.  The pretty, high, and oval apartment, with its large window, opening upon a garden, its ceiling painted in light rosy clouds, its woodwork ornamented with wreaths and quivers, still preserved some of the charm and elegance of former days.  Amedee would have been amused there, had not Uncle Isidore, who had seated himself before his desk, launched at once an unkind question at M. Violette.

“By the way, have you obtained the promotion that you counted so much upon last year?”

“Unfortunately, no, Monsieur Gaufre.  You know what the Administration is.”

“Yes, it is slow; but you are not overwhelmed with work, however.  While in a business like this—­what cares, what annoyances!  I sometimes envy you.  You can take an hour to cut your pens.  Well, what is wanted of me now?”

The head of a clerk with a pencil behind his ear, appeared through the half-open door.

“Monsieur le Superieur of Foreign Missions wishes to speak with Monsieur.”

“You can see!  Not one minute to myself.  Another time, my dear Violette.  Adieu, my little man—­it is astonishing how much he grows to look like Lucie!  You must come and dine with me some Sunday, without ceremony.  Berenice’s ‘souffle au fromage’ is something delicious!  Let Monsieur le Superieur come in.”

M. Violette took his departure, displeased at his useless visit and irritated against Uncle Isidore, who had been hardly civil.

“That man is a perfect egotist,” thought he, sadly; “and that girl has him in her clutches.  My poor Amedee will have nothing from him.”