parently not there.

The room was, in truth, Claparon's private office. Between the
ostentatious reception-room of Francois Keller and the untidy abode of
the counterfeit banker, there was all the difference that exists between
Versailles and the wigwam of a Huron chief. Birotteau had witnessed the
splendors of finance; he was now to see its fooleries. Lying in bed,
in a sort of oblong recess or den opening from the farther end of the
office, and where the habits of a slovenly life had spoiled, dirtied,
greased, torn, defaced, obliterated, and ruined furniture which had been
elegant in its day, Claparon, at the entrance of Birotteau, wrapped his
filthy dressing-gown around him, laid down his pipe, and drew together
the curtains of the bed with a haste which made even the innocent
perfumer suspect his morals.

"Sit down, monsieur," said the make-believe banker.

Claparon, without his wig, his head wrapped up in a bandanna
handkerchief twisted awry, seemed all the more hideous to Birotteau
because, when the dressing-gown gaped open, he saw an undershirt
of knitted wool, once white, but now yellowed by wear indefinitely
prolonged.

"Will you breakfast with me?" said Claparon, recollecting the perfumer's
ball, and thinking to make him a return and also to put him off the
scent by this invitation.

Cesar now perceived a round table, hastily cleared of its litter, which
bore testimony to the presence of jovial company by a pate, oysters,
white wine, and vulgar kidneys, _sautes au vin de champagne_, sodden in
their own sauce. The light of a charcoal brazier gleamed on an _omelette
aux truffes_.

Two covers and two napkins, soiled by the supper of the previous night,
might have enlightened the purest innocence. Claparon, thinking himself
very clever, pressed his invitation in spite of Cesar's refusal.

"I was to have had a guest, but that guest has disappointed me," said
the crafty traveller, in a voice likely to reach a person buried under
coverlets.

"Monsieur," said Birotteau, "I came solely on business, and I shall not
detain you long."

"I'm used up," said Claparon, pointing to the desk and the tables piled
with documents; "they don't leave me a poor miserable moment to myself!
I don't receive people except on Saturdays. But as for you, my dear
friend, I'll see you at any time. I haven't a moment to love or to loaf;
I have lost even the inspiration of business; to catch its vim one must
have the sloth of ease.