“Kiss her?” Poufaille said, looking at Phil gloomily. “Are you making fun of me? She hasn’t let me kiss her for more than a month; she’s furious against every one—against myself!”
“Oh, now!” said Phil, “Suzanne furious? She wouldn’t be so gay.”
“I tell you she is; and I can see it. Do you think it gives me pleasure to take the blows of a broomstick on my head? The stick is light, it is true, and I have a false pigskin skull; but never mind! is that a trade? You knew me and you knew her. I was the creator of ‘Liberty’ and ‘Fraternity’; and now you see what I am—a fly-killer! It’s flattering, hein? To be a fly-killer when I feel within myself the soul of a lion!”
“Keep up your hopes,” Phil answered; “all that will change.”
“‘Keep up your hopes’! But you know nothing about it,” Poufaille hurried on with his tragic voice; “oh, Suzanne strikes hard with her aïe donc! But the hardest is that I should pay up for others. Oh, yes; I receive blows which ought to have been for you!”
“For me?” Phil gasped.
“Yes, for you—which ought to have been for you—for you—you hear?” and Poufaille shook Phil by the coat collar. “I tell you, it’s your fault!”
“You must be crazy,” Phil answered. “What have I done?”
“What have you done?” Poufaille continued, in the excitement of his glass of rum. “Do you want to know what you have done? I am going to tell you what you have done—to me! You have stolen my share of happiness!”
“Has that taken hold of you again?” said Phil. “I thought it was over—all this nonsense about stealing glory.”