“Where?”
“Why, to dinner!”
And as he looked at them with the air of a man who had just been roused, and has not had time to collect his thoughts, they went on,—
“Well, to dinner. It appears Saigon possesses an admirable French restaurant, where the cook, a Parisian, is simply a great artist. Come, get up, and let us go.”
But Daniel was in a humor which made solitude irresistibly attractive. He trembled at the idea of being torn from his melancholy reveries, of being compelled to take his part in conversation, to talk, to listen, to reply.
“I cannot dine with you to-day, my friends,” he said to his comrades.
“You are joking.”
“No, I am not. I must return on board.” Then only, the others were struck by the sad expression of his face; and, changing their tone, they asked him in the most affectionate manner,—
“What is the matter, Champcey? Have you heard of any misfortune, any death?”
“No.”