“True,” he said, “I deplore the loss of our late good company. And so do you, my Bonito, if for a different reason. I miss its penny-wisdom, and you its penny-fees. But however our respective souls may feel the present pinch, they would do well, it seems to me, to prepare for, even to provide against, a worse. I think Di Rocco looks very bloated and shaky of late, don’t you?”
“Ah! you wish him to die first!”
Bonito rose to his feet and went pacing vehemently up and down. Trix, watching him, said quietly,—
“You are very wrong. I wish the padrone no harm whatever—least of all the harm of this ludicrous misalliance.”
The physician stopped suddenly.
“It is quite true,” he said. “I know the conditions. We should both be disinherited—taken by the scruff and kicked out. The notary has already been advised.”
“What then? The stars are always common land.”
“Do you think so, my friend? There are no pastures so exclusive, nor so costly in the grazing. Why else have I served parsimony these long years, as Galeotti served Louis Gripes, if not for promise of the late means to their attainment. Let us be frank; why have you?”
“For fun,” said the young man, “or my duty to an older scapegrace. I don’t see the possibility of either in a regimen of Mademoiselle de France.”
Bonito, sitting down again and leaning his elbows on the table, searched hungrily the brown eyes which canvassed his imperturbably. Suddenly he dealt out a question,—