“Another glass, my boy!”
“No more, thank you. I fear it would make me very ill.”
Chariot laughed. “And you a Parisian! Waiter, bring more wine!”
The boy dared make no farther objection. The attentions of which he was the object flattered him immensely. That this man, who for eighteen months had never vouchsafed him any notice, should, meeting him by chance that morning in the streets, have invited him to the cabaret and treated him, was a matter of surprise and congratulation to himself. At first Jack was somewhat distrustful of such courtesy, for the other had such a singular way of repeating his question, “Is there nothing new at the Rondics? Really, nothing new?”
“I wonder,” thought the apprentice, “if he wishes me to carry his letters, instead of Bélisaire!”
But after a little while the boy became more at ease. Perhaps Chariot, he thought, may not be such a bad fellow. A good friend might induce him to relinquish play, and make him a better man.
After Jack had taken his third glass of wine, he became very cordial, and offered to become this good friend. Chariot accepting the offer with enthusiasm, the boy thought himself justified in at once offering his advice.
“Look here, M. Chariot, listen to me, and don’t play any more.”
The blow struck home, for the young man’s lips trembled nervously, and he swallowed a glass of brandy at one gulp.
At that moment the factory-bell sounded.