“Come, Heloise, the lady is not up to this; let her alone.”
“Madame is perhaps the New Heloise,” suggested La Cibot, with sly innocence.
“Not bad, old lady!” cried Gaudissart.
“It is a venerable joke,” said the dancer, “a grizzled pun; find us another old lady—or take a cigarette.”
“I beg your pardon, madame, I feel too unhappy to answer you; my two gentlemen are very ill; and to buy nourishment for them and to spare them trouble, I have pawned everything down to my husband’s clothes that I pledged this morning. Here is the ticket!”
“Oh! here, the affair is becoming tragic,” cried the fair Heloise. “What is it all about?”
“Madame drops down upon us like—”
“Like a dancer,” said Heloise; “let me prompt you,—missus!”
“Come, I am busy,” said Gaudissart. “The joke has gone far enough. Heloise, this is M. Pons’ confidential servant; she had come to tell me that I must not count upon him; our poor conductor is not expected to live. I don’t know what to do.”
“Oh! poor man; why, he must have a benefit.”