"What else can one do?" said Lafarge; "if one passes one's life in cafés, one must drink something."
"So you spend all your time in cafés?"
"Nearly all: I can work best so."
"In the midst of all the noise and talking?"
"I am used to that: Théaulon works thus, Francis works thus, Rochefort works thus, we all work thus. Don't we, Théaulon?"
A man of thirty to thirty-five, who had been writing rapidly, on quarto paper, something that looked like dialogue, at this interpellation lifted up his pale face—red about the cheek bones—and looked at us kindly.
"Yes," he said; "what is it? Ah! it is you, Lafarge? Good-evening." And he resumed his work.
"Is that Théaulon?" I asked.
"Yes; there's a man of ready wit for you! only he squanders and abuses his ready wit. Do you know what he is doing now?" "No."
"He is writing a comedy, in five acts, in verse."