“No tobacco!” said the Doctor.
“No cloak!” said the Keeper of the Seals.
“Ah, you rascals, you would dress as the postillion de Longjumeau, you would appear as Debardeurs, sup in the morning, and breakfast at night at Very’s—sometimes even at the Rocher de Cancale.—Dry bread for you, my boys! Why,” said I, in a big bass voice, “you deserve to sleep under the bed, you are not worthy to lie in it—”
“Yes, yes; but, Keeper of the Seals, there is no more tobacco!” said Juste.
“It is high time to write home, to our aunts, our mothers, and our sisters, to tell them we have no underlinen left, that the wear and tear of Paris would ruin garments of wire. Then we will solve an elegant chemical problem by transmuting linen into silver.”
“But we must live till we get the answer.”
“Well, I will go and bring out a loan among such of our friends as may still have some capital to invest.”
“And how much will you find?”
“Say ten francs!” replied I with pride.
It was midnight. Marcas had heard everything. He knocked at our door.