Just as Gueulin was leaving, Bachelard called him back.
“Kiss her on the forehead; I permit it.”
And then he went himself and put him outside the door, after which he returned to Auguste, and, placing his hand on his heart, he said:
“It’s no joke; I give you my word of honor that I intended giving her to him, later on.”
“And the address?” asked the other, losing all patience.
The uncle appeared surprised, as though he had answered him before.
“Eh? what? Clarisse’s address? Why, I don’t know it.”
Auguste made an angry gesture. Everything was going wrong: there seemed to be a regular plot to render him ridiculous! Seeing him so upset, Bachelard made a suggestion. No doubt, Trublot knew the address, and they might find him at his employer’s—the stockbroker, Desmarquay. And the uncle, with the obliging manner of one accustomed to knock about, offered to accompany his young friend. The latter accepted.
“Listen!” said the uncle to Fifi, after kissing her in his turn on the forehead: “here’s the sugar from the café, all the same, and three four-sou bits for your money-box. Behave well whilst awaiting my orders.”