"Your master! So you have a master now. I imagined that your uniform was only for show. I know, Monsieur le Marquis, that you always had a fancy for assuming a disguise, and even in the time of——"
"Are you sober, Dodger?"
"I beg your pardon. I couldn't help it. I thought I was back again to those days when you, Monsieur le Marquis, disguised yourself before proceeding on certain expeditions. And then, it's quite true, this country, this air intoxicates me. I don't know myself. I am twenty years younger. I beg your pardon. . . ."
"Listen to me. I am employed as hall-porter by Dr. Herbert Ross, 95 A, Avenue Victor Hugo. He is a fashionable surgeon-dentist, and has a large number of smart patients. Remember that, I beg of you. And you, do you know what you are?"
"Know what I am! I should think I did. I am M. Hilaire, grocer, spending a holiday on the Riviera, and my one idea is to amuse myself and take things easy."
They had reached a dingy street which turned into the Place Masséna. Chéri-Bibi came to a stand before an hotel.
"I've taken a room here in your name. Off with you! I'll wait for you."
Five minutes later Hilaire came out again.
"I've only had time to wash my hands and dip my face in a basin of water," he said. "Where are we going to dine? I'll stand treat."
Chéri-Bibi took the Dodger to a restaurant, in the old town, famous for its tripe and light white wines. Hilaire was in the highest spirits. After dinner he lit a cigar which Chéri-Bibi gave him and he puffed away at it with great gusto as he threw himself back in his chair.