“Well, old comrade. I may be a drunkard, but you can make up your mind to one thing—my eyes are wide open just the same.”
“And what do you see in particular just at present?”
“That you are making a fool of yourself, and I am not the only one who thinks so.”
Firmin makes an indignant gesture, as though in protest against the assertion or assumption that a man of his importance should be so regarded by his friends; as though he could be led about by the nose! He—Firmin!
“Your health, Firmin,” adds Andoche, touching his visitor’s glass.
“Here’s to you,” returns Firmin, in a preoccupied manner.
The blacksmith, having drained his glass to the dregs with one toss of the hand, goes on to say: “My friend, I have not lived in the city and frequented the haunts of society like you—though I was once in garrison at Château Thierry—but I have a grain or two of common sense, and were I in your place I should not prowl around the little cottage over there like a dog.”
“And why, pray, should I not visit the gamekeeper’s house?”
“Because there are more poachers than millionnaires in the world.”
“Well, what of it?”