It was at the Café Anglais that uncle Bachelard had invited Duveyrier to dine, without any one knowing why, perhaps for the pleasure of treating a counselor, and of showing him that tradespeople knew how to spend their money. He had also invited Trublot and Gueulin—four men and no women—for women do not know how to eat; they interfere with the truffles, and spoil digestion.
“Drink away! drink away, sir!” he kept saying to Duveyrier; “when wines are good they never intoxicate. It’s the same with food; it never does one harm so long as it’s delicate.”
He, however, was careful. On this occasion he was posing for the gentleman, shaved and brushed up, and with a rose in his buttonhole, restraining himself from breaking the crockery, which he was in the habit of doing. Trublot and Gueulin eat of everything. The uncle’s theory seemed the right one, for Duveyrier, who suffered a great deal from his stomach, had drank considerably, and had returned to the crayfish salad, without feeling the least indisposed, the red blotches on his face merely assuming a purple hue.
Then, when the coffee had been served, with some liquors and cigars, and all the attendants had withdrawn, uncle Bachelard suddenly leaned back in his chair and heaved a sigh of satisfaction.
“Ah!” declared he, “one is comfortable.”
Trublot and Gueulin, also leaning back in their chairs, opened their arms.
“Completely!” said the one.
“Up to the eyes!” added the other.
Duveyrier, who was puffing, nodded his head, and murmured: