“What do I want of you?” exclaimed M. Goefle, with some indignation; “I want my fur cloak, my cap, my waistcoat, my shirt, my slippers;—I want everything of mine that you have clothed and ornamented your lovely person with.”
“Bah! bah! What makes you think so? You are dreaming, my good man!” said the adventurer, raising himself to a sitting posture, and looking with astonishment upon his borrowed wardrobe. Then, laughing, as he began confusedly to remember the night’s transactions, he continued:
“Upon my word, Monsieur Goefle—it is that very respectable and eminent gentleman to whom I have the honor of speaking, is it not?”
“I have every reason to believe so, monsieur. Well, then?—”
“Well, then,” replied Cristiano, rising promptly and removing the doctor’s cap from his own head, with perfect courtesy, “I have to beg a thousand pardons—though at the same time I do not merit a single one. Please to consider, sir—I am a young man, and just at this moment quite destitute. A romantic notion led me to the ball last night, and I found no decent clothes within my reach except these, which Providence seemed to have sent on purpose. I am perfectly cleanly, and in perfect health; and moreover, if you should object to wear the clothes after me, I shall be able to-morrow to pay you for them, whatever price you choose to value them at.”
“A good joke that would be! Do you take me for a tailor?”
“By no means; but I should be extremely pained to be thought a thief. That is not my character at all.”
“Faith, I see that you are an honest young fellow—but you are very thoughtless. Still, even if I were inclined to be angry, the thing is done, and can’t be helped. I see very well that your health is good, for, by Jove, you have a magnificent color! And what hair! Ah, my fine fellow, I recognize the perfume of my hair-powder! But how the devil did you get into the ball-room without an invitation? for your style of travelling-dress does not indicate—”
“That I belong in good society, you were going to say? Oh, say so! I am not all susceptible on that point.”
“But, after all, I don’t know anything about it. The clothes don’t make the man. You have a very aristocratic hand. Come—out with it! Who are you? If there’s a romance, I’m fond of romantic stories; and if there’s a secret—well, your face pleases me, and I promise to be as discreet—as discreet as a lawyer—more could not be said.”