'Don't alarm yourself, old lady,' replied Gilquin, who was growing more and more familiar; 'when you gain your case, you can ask me to come and stay with you, and then we'll all have a go at the jam-pots!'
So saying, he poured himself out another glass of absinthe. He was now perfectly tipsy. For a moment he looked at the Charbonnels with loving affection; but, all at once, he sprang to his feet and waved his long arms while calling; 'Eh! eh! Hallo! you there!'
Madame Mélanie Correur, arrayed in a dress of dove-coloured silk, was just then passing on the opposite footwalk. She turned her head and seemed extremely annoyed at seeing Gilquin. However, she crossed over with the majestic gait of a princess, but on reaching the table required a deal of pressing before she would accept any refreshment.
'Come now,' cried Gilquin, 'have a little glass of blackcurrant brandy. I know you like it. You haven't forgotten the Rue Vanneau, eh? We used to have fine times then, didn't we? Ah! that big old stupid of a Correur!'
Just as Madame Correur was at last sitting down, a loud shouting was heard among the crowd. The promenaders scuttled off like sheep, as though swept along by a gust of wind. The Charbonnels had instinctively risen with the idea of following the others, but Gilquin's heavy hand brought them to their chairs again. His face was quite purple.
'Just keep still and wait for orders, will you?' said he. 'Those folks are making fools of themselves. It is only five o'clock, isn't it? Well, then, it's the Cardinal-Legate who's coming; and we don't want to see the Cardinal-Legate, do we? For my part, I think it's very neglectful of the Pope not to have come himself. When a man is a godfather he ought to behave as such, it seems to me. However, I tell you that the youngster won't be here for another half-hour.'
His intoxication was rapidly depriving him of all sense of decorum. He had cocked his chair back and begun to smoke in people's faces, winking the while at the women and glaring defiantly at the men. A few yards away, near the bridge of Notre Dame, there was now a block in the road traffic. Horses were pawing the ground with impatience, and the uniforms of high functionaries and officers, embroidered with gold and glittering with decorations, appeared at the windows of the passing carriages.
'There's a nice show of tinsel and pewter!' sneered Gilquin, with the smile of a man who cares nothing for gew-gaws.
However, as a brougham came along from the Quai de la Mégisserie, he almost upset the table as he sprang up and cried: 'Hallo, Rougon!'
He saluted the great man with his gloved hand, and then, fearing that he had not been recognised, snatched off his straw hat and began to wave it. At this, Rougon, whose senatorial uniform was attracting a deal of notice, quickly withdrew to a corner of his brougham. And thereupon Gilquin began to call him, raising his hand to his mouth and using it as a speaking-trumpet. The people on the footway stopped and turned to see what was the matter with this strange-looking fellow dressed in yellow duck. At last, however, the coachman was able to urge his horse forward, and the brougham turned on to the bridge of Notre Dame.