These were the last words that Eugene heard and understood.
“There is no one like M. Vautrin for a bit of fun like this,” said Sylvie. “There, just hark at Christophe, he is snoring like a top.”
“Good-bye, mamma,” said Vautrin; “I am going to a theatre on the boulevard to see M. Marty in Le Mont Sauvage, a fine play taken from Le Solitaire.... If you like, I will take you and these two ladies——”
“Thank you; I must decline,” said Mme. Couture.
“What! my good lady!” cried Mme. Vauquer, “decline to see a play founded on the Le Solitaire, a work by Atala de Chateaubriand? We were so fond of that book that we cried over it like Magdalens under the line-trees last summer, and then it is an improving work that might edify your young lady.”
“We are forbidden to go to the play,” answered Victorine.
“Just look, those two yonder have dropped off where they sit,” said Vautrin, shaking the heads of the two sleepers in a comical way.
He altered the sleeping student’s position, settled his head more comfortably on the back of his chair, kissed him warmly on the forehead, and began to sing:
“Sleep, little darlings;
I watch while you slumber.”
“I am afraid he may be ill,” said Victorine.