Théophraste faced about suddenly. “What has put such an idea into your head?” he exclaimed.
“Do you not remember the day that you brought the specimen of your handwriting and asked for my opinion?”
“I remember, and you were wrong,” said Théophraste drily, as he opened his umbrella.
Signor Petito, in nowise discouraged, placed himself under the shelter of Théophraste’s umbrella. “Oh! M. Longuet, I did not say that to annoy you.”
They arrived at the corner of the Avenue Tre-daine. Théophraste was in very bad humor.
“Monsieur,” he said, “I have an appointment at the tavern of the Veau-qui-telle, by the side of the Chapel Porcherons, here, you see.”
“But we are at the Chapel Notre Dame de Lor-rete, and not the Porcherons, at all.”
Théophraste disregarded Petito’s remark, and suddenly said to him, “Do you know that there is a price on my head?”
Signor Petito seemed taken aback by this sudden change of tone.
“It will cost them dear, though, to get my head,” said Théophraste. “Do you know how much it will cost, Signor, the head of L’Enfant? No? Very well. I am going to tell you, since the occasion has presented itself, and I am going to tell you the whole story, which may be profitable to you.”