"Oh, I must deliver a letter."
"So must I; from whom, if I may ask?"
"Oh, it is no secret. I have a Bedouin prince for a friend who accompanied me to Paris. About two hours ago my pasha fell down the stairs of his hotel and broke his right leg. The doctor says that it will take six weeks for the leg to be cured. As he was invited to a ball at the Larsagny palace to-night—"
"Does he know the banker?" interrupted Coucou.
"No—Mohammed Ben Omar is in Paris for the first time. As the pasha is unable to attend the ball, I have to bring his letter of excuse, and now I must really go on my way."
Coucou pretended not to hear these last words. He gazed at a group of men who sat at a side table, and whispered to Galoret:
"Look at those fools. How they stare at you. One would think they had never seen a Chasseur d'Afrique."
"Impertinent scoundrels," growled Galoret, and, turning to the gentlemen, he cried in an angry tone of voice:
"You boobies, have you looked at my uniform long enough?"
The gentlemen answered in not very polite tones. Galoret couldn't stand this. One word led to another, and finally chairs were taken up to settle the discussion.