“That will not import,” replied Toussaint, with the hauteur of a prince of the blood.
Felicitating himself on having got rid of a doctor’s bill, Charlton took his departure.
“The exceedingly poor cuss!” muttered Blake, tossing after him the stump of a cigar.
“Let me pay you for your trouble, Mr. Blake,” said Toussaint.
“Not a copper, Marquis! I have been here only half an hour, and in that time have read the newspaper, smoked one regalia, quality prime, and pocketed another. If that is not pay enough, you shall make it up by curling my hair the next time I go to a ball.”
“But take the rest of the cigars.”
“There, Marquis, you touch me on my weak point. Thank you. Good by, Toussaint!”
Toussaint closed the door, and called to his wife in a whisper, speaking in French, “How goes it, Juliette?”
“Hist! She sleeps. She wishes you to put this letter in the post-office as soon as possible. If you can get the canary-bird, do it. I hope the doctor will be here soon.”
Toussaint left at once to mail the invalid’s letter and get possession of her bird.