The whole of the
house had been let, entirely given over, and now had come the last hours
of this invasion which compelled the hairdresser and his wife to seek
refuge in the narrow cellar, where they slept on a small camp-bed.
While Cazaban was rubbing M. de Guersaint's cheeks with soap-suds, the
architect questioned him. "Well, are you satisfied with the season?"
"Certainly, monsieur, I can't complain. As you hear, my travellers are
leaving to-day, but I am expecting others to-morrow morning; barely
sufficient time for a sweep out. It will be the same up to October."
Then, as Pierre remained standing, walking about the shop and looking at
the walls with an air of impatience, he turned round politely and said:
"Pray be seated, Monsieur l'Abbe; take a newspaper. It will not be long."
The priest having thanked him with a nod, and refusing to sit down, the
hairdresser, whose tongue was ever itching to talk, continued: "Oh! as
for myself, I am always busy, my house is renowned for the cleanliness of
the beds and the excellence of the fare. Only the town is not satisfied.
Ah, no! I may even say that I have never known so much discontent here."
He became silent for a moment, and shaved his customer's left cheek; then
again pausing in his work he suddenly declared with a cry, wrung from him
by conviction, "The Fathers of the Grotto are playing with fire,
monsieur, that is all I have to say."
From that moment, however, the vent-plug was withdrawn, and he talked and
talked and talked again.
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