"Yes, the little uns, too. And your nephew, André, where is he?"
"Don't mention him; he was out on a spree yesterday. Barbillon and Gros-Boiteux brought him back this morning. He is out for a walk now towards the General Post-office in the Rue St. Jacques Rousseau. And your brother, Martial, is he just such a rum un as ever?"
"Ma foi! I don't know."
"Don't know?"
"No," replied Nicholas, assuming an indifferent air; "we have seen nothing of him for the last two days. Perhaps he's gone poaching in the woods again; unless his boat, which was very, very old, has sunk in the river, with him in it."
"At which you would not be dreadfully affected, you bad lot, for you can't bear your brother, I know."
"True; we have strange likes and dislikes. How many pounds of metal d'ye make?"
"You're right to a hair, just a hundred and fifty pounds, my lad."
"And you owe me—"
"Just thirty francs."