Georget cast a glance at the mirror to make sure that nothing was lacking in his costume. When a man is in love, he becomes particular about his looks, and Georget would have been very glad to please the pretty flower girl of the Château d’Eau, who seemed to look upon him as a child; that distressed the poor boy, he was sorry that he was not at least twenty years old, because he thought that then she would pay more attention to him. For we are never content with the passage of time; when we are young, we think that it doesn’t move fast enough; later, we complain because it moves too fast. And yet we know that the wisest course is to take it as it comes; probably we are not often wise, as we are always growling about it. Georget went down to the third floor, and rang softly at Monsieur Malberg’s door; a very dark mulatto, whose hair age had not yet turned white, and who spoke French very well for a colored man, and very ill for a Parisian, opened the door and recognized the young messenger whom he had met sometimes on the stairs. “Hullo! it’s Monsieur Georget. Morning, Monsieur Georget! What you come here for so early?” “Monsieur Pongo, I would like to speak to your master, Monsieur Malberg.” “Oh! master not up yet, he still sleep; I get up sooner, to tidy the room, rub floor here in the morning without waking master.” “If he is still asleep, I will wait.” “Yes, you sit down on a nice little chair, like this.” “Thanks, Monsieur Pongo; I hope I am not in your way; go on with your work.” “Yes, yes, then I go very soft and see if monsieur still sleep.” The mulatto went into another room. Georget sat down and waited. After a few moments he heard voices in the next room and supposed that Monsieur Malberg was awake. But still he was left alone, nobody came, and Georget, beginning to be impatient, coughed, walked about the room and stole softly to the door, which was ajar. He was surprised to find that the mulatto was alone, but that as he did his work, he kept up a steady conversation with all the furniture and other objects in the study, which to him were people to whom he gave names, according to the custom of the people of his country. “You stay there, Broubrou!” said Pongo to a tall Voltaire easy-chair. “You all right, you satisfied, all brushed, all cleaned, all ready for master to use, unless he take Babo, the little horsehair chair. Oh! Babo, you’d be mighty pleased if master took you instead of Madame Broubrou! she take up much more room.--There! now you all cleaned, well rubbed, good ‘nough to eat.--But I forget Zima; where you hide yourself, Zima? oh! no good for you to hide yourself, I know all right how to find you.” And the mulatto looked in every corner of the room, and at last succeeded in finding a small bamboo cane with a gilt head. It was that cane to which Pongo had given the name of Zima. He took it up and shook it impatiently, muttering: