“Pardon me, my dear Lansade.”
“It is true,” said Bonnaud: “monsieur is quite abstracted.”
“Eusebe,” cried Buck, “these gentlemen speak truly. You have something concealed from us. Are you unhappy? Are you home-sick, my boy? are you anxious to behold your native meadows? Do these maples awaken in you a desire to see once more your tall chestnuts? and the good things spread before us by our friend Lansade, do they remind you of your own rural repasts in the paternal mansion?”
“No.”
“Then perhaps you have left, seated on the banks of the Vienna, a young shepherdess, who sadly awaits your return?”
Lansade laughed rather boisterously. He and his mercantile friend had drank very little, but nevertheless more than usual.
“Well,” continued Buck, “let Eusebe swear to us that he is not in love, and I will leave him in peace.”
“I never swear.”
“Then admit that you are in love, my melancholy friend.”
“It is true,” replied Eusebe.