"He?" repeated Agonde, following his example. "So-so. Oldish. And very gray."
"But what is the matter with him? Let us hear. For as to being sick, he is that."
"He has—a new disease—a very strange one, one of the latest fashion." And Agonde smiled maliciously.
"New?"
Agonde half-closed his eyes, bent toward Tropiezo, and whispered something in his ear.
Tropiezo burst into a laugh; suddenly he looked very serious, and tapping his nose repeatedly with his forefinger:
"I know, I know," he said emphatically. "And the waters here, and some others in France, are the only cure for that disease. If he drinks a few glasses from the spring, he will be himself again."
Tropiezo emitted his dictamen leaning on the counter, forgetful of the mule that was stamping impatiently at the door.
"And the Señora—what does she say of her husband's state of health?" he suddenly asked, with a wink.
"What should she say of it, man? Probably she does not know that it is serious."