Hardly had these words been uttered when the door was opened and a
tall man in black entered the shop in a squall of snow and wind
exclaiming:

"A Salamander! A Salamander!"

And without taking notice of anyone he bent over the grate,
rummaging in the cinders with the end of his walking stick, very
much to the detriment of Friar Ange, who coughed fit to give up the
ghost, swallowing the ashes and coal-dust thrown into his soup
plate. And the man in black still continued to rummage in the fire,
shouting, "A Salamander! I see a Salamander!" while the stirred-up
flames made the shadow of his bodily form tremble on the ceiling
like a large bird of prey.

My father was surprised and rather annoyed by the manners of the
visitor. But he knew how to restrain himself. And so he rose, his
napkin under his arm, and went to the fireplace, bending to the
hearth, both his fists on his thighs.

When he had sufficiently considered the disordered fireplace, and
Friar Ange covered with ashes, he said:

"Your lordship will excuse me. I cannot see anything but this paltry
monk, and no Salamander.

"Besides," my father went on, "I have but little regret over it. I
have it from hearsay that it is an ugly beast, hairy and horned,
with big claws."