“Monsieur,” said Anselme, suddenly appearing from the doorway, “two words?”
“Eleven, if you like,” said the commercial traveller, brandishing his loaded cane over the aggressor.
“I am Popinot,” said poor Anselme.
“Enough!” cried Gaudissart, recognizing him. “What do you need? Money?—absent, on leave, but we can get it. My arm for a duel?—all is yours, from my head to my heels,” and he sang,—
“Behold! behold!
A Frenchman true!”
“Come and talk with me for ten minutes; not in your room,—we might be overheard,—but on the Quai de l’Horloge; there’s no one there at this hour,” said Popinot. “It is about something important.”
“Exciting, hey? Proceed.”
In ten minutes Gaudissart, put in possession of Popinot’s secret, saw its importance.
“Come forth! perfumers, hair-dressers, petty retailers!”
sang Gaudissart, mimicking Lafon in the role of the Cid. “I shall grab every shopkeeper in France and Navarre.—Oh, an idea! I was about to start; I remain; I shall take commissions from the Parisian perfumers.”