Richling insisted, in the face of much scepticism on the part of the baker’s widow, that he felt better, was better, and would go on getting better, now that the weather was cool once more.
“Well, I hope you vill, Mr. Richlin’, dtat’s a fect. ’Specially ven yo’ vife comin’. Dough I could a-tooken care ye choost tso koot as vot she couldt.”
“But maybe you couldn’t take care of her as well as I can,” said the happy Richling.
“Oh, tdat’s a tdifferendt. A voman kin tek care herself.”
Visiting the French market on one of these glad mornings, as his business often required him to do, he fell in with Narcisse, just withdrawing from the celebrated coffee-stand of Rose Nicaud. Richling stopped in the moving crowd and exchanged salutations very willingly; for here was one more chance to hear himself tell the fact of Mary’s expected coming.
“So’y, Mistoo Itchlin,” said Narcisse, whipping away the pastry crumbs from his lap with a handkerchief and wiping his mouth, “not to encounteh you a lill biffo’, to join in pahtaking the cup what cheeahs at the same time whilce it invigo’ates; to-wit, the coffee-cup—as the maxim say. I dunno by what fawmule she makes that coffee, but ’tis astonishin’ how ’tis good, in fact. I dunno if you’ll billieve me, but I feel almost I could pahtake anotheh cup—? ’Tis the tooth.” He gave Richling time to make any handsome offer that might spontaneously suggest itself, but seeing that the response was only an over-gay expression of face, he added, “But I conclude no. In fact, Mistoo Itchlin, thass a thing I have discovud,—that too much coffee millytates ag’inst the chi’og’aphy; and thus I abstain. Well, seh, ole Abe is elected.”
“Yes,” rejoined Richling, “and there’s no telling what the result will be.”
“You co’ect, Mistoo Itchlin.” Narcisse tried to look troubled.
“I’ve got a bit of private news that I don’t think you’ve heard,” said Richling. And the Creole rejoined promptly:—
“Well, I thought I saw something on yo’ thoughts—if you’ll excuse my tautology. Thass a ve’y diffycult to p’event sometime’. But, Mistoo Itchlin, I trus’ ’tis not you ’ave allowed somebody to swin’le you?—confiding them too indiscweetly, in fact?” He took a pretty attitude, his eyes reposing in Richling’s.