“This man swears that it is so.”
D’Argenton looked at the man, whose face was not absolutely unknown to him.
“Did you come from the gentleman,—that is to say, did he send you?”
“No; he is too sick to send any one. It is three weeks since he has been in his bed, and very, very ill.”
“What is his disease?”
“Something on the lungs, and the doctors say that he cannot live; so I thought I had better come and tell his mother.”
“What is your name?”
“Bélisaire, sir; but the lady knows me.”
“Very well, then,” said the poet, “you will say to the one who sent you, that the game is a good one, though rather old, and he had better try something else.”
“Sir?” said the pedler, interrogatively, for he did not comprehend these sarcastic words.