The blind man held out his hat, that flapped about at the door, as if it were a bag in the lining that had come unnailed.
“This,” said the chemist, “is a scrofulous affection.”
And though he knew the poor devil, he pretended to see him for the first time, murmured something about “cornea,” “opaque cornea,” “sclerotic,” “facies,” then asked him in a paternal tone—
“My friend, have you long had this terrible infirmity? Instead of getting drunk at the public, you’d do better to die yourself.”
He advised him to take good wine, good beer, and good joints. The blind man went on with his song; he seemed, moreover, almost idiotic. At last Monsieur Homais opened his purse—
“Now there’s a sou; give me back two lairds, and don’t forget my advice: you’ll be the better for it.”
Hivert openly cast some doubt on the efficacy of it. But the druggist said that he would cure himself with an antiphlogistic pomade of his own composition, and he gave his address—“Monsieur Homais, near the market, pretty well known.”
“Now,” said Hivert, “for all this trouble you’ll give us your performance.”
The blind man sank down on his haunches, with his head thrown back, whilst he rolled his greenish eyes, lolled out his tongue, and rubbed his stomach with both hands as he uttered a kind of hollow yell like a famished dog. Emma, filled with disgust, threw him over her shoulder a five-franc piece. It was all her fortune. It seemed to her very fine thus to throw it away.
The coach had gone on again when suddenly Monsieur Homais leant out through the window, crying—