“I will as far as the door,” said Struve, rising also. “Pelisson, where are you for?”
“Home and go to bed,” said Pelisson, rising also. “M. de Nani—why, he’s drunk again!”
M. le Marquis de Nani had risen from his seat, and seemed trying to walk upstairs through the air. It was the back blow of the night.
“I never saw a man slip into drink, like a girl into her shift, so swiftly and with such divine simplicity,” lisped Struve. “Do wash his face, someone; he is painted like a demi-mondaine, and the paint has broken loose over his nose. Can’t possibly take him into the street such a disgraceful figure.”
They washed De Nani’s face with white wine and Toto’s handkerchief, whilst the old man struggled and resisted like a child. It was a mournful spectacle, and Toto did not laugh as the others did.
“That’s what’s the end of all,” he thought. “Eugh! what a beastly thing life is!”
“Now put on his hat,” commanded Pelisson, who acted as master of the ceremonies, “and jam it down—that’s right. I will carry his cane. Drive him before you, and call a cab,” he cried to the garçon, handing him a napoleon for pourboire.
They got the old man into a fiacre, weeping and protesting and fighting like a lunatic with his keepers.
“Where shall we send him to?” asked Pelisson.
“I don’t know where he lives; send him to the Morgue, send him to the Prefecture, send him anywhere you like,” said Toto.