Bruno alone was silent. Now and then he opened his mouth as though he had something to say, but he closed it again without speaking. Amid the babble Firmin ventured a word. He had been a valet in Paris, and more than one pretty chambermaid had smiled upon him: so he felt himself to be quite a squire of dames.
“Madame Barrau is such a fine-looking woman that her husband ought to be satisfied if—if—don’t you know?”
Every one save Bruno burst into laughter. He turned pale, clinched his fists, and muttered something to himself. Finally he said with vehemence, as he planted himself before Firmin: “You are a scoundrel. You, at least, have no right to say anything. I repeat, you are a scoundrel!”
“Ah, my dear fellow, how excited you are!”
“You know very well that Madame Catherine is an honest woman. I will answer for it, and I forbid you to say a word to the contrary.”
“You forbid me! You forbid me!” retorted Firmin, pale and exasperated. “And what if I laugh in your face?”
“I will break your head as I would a cat’s,” cried Bruno, more and more enraged.
“Ah, ha!” said Andoche, in his maddening way: “you are then in love with Madame Catherine?”
“I also forbid you to speak like that, Andoche. Indeed, one ought never to allow drunkards in company.”
He must be a hot-brained fellow to speak like that—this young Bruno.