"A snug income is no stigma, whether one derives it from Parnassus or the Bourse," continued Tricotrin. "Hold! Who is that I see, slouching over there? As I live, it's Pitou, the composer, whose dilemma I told you of!"
"Another?" quavered the clerk, dismayed.
"Hé, Nicolas! Turn your symphonic gaze this way! 'Tis I, Gustave!"
"Ah, mon vieux!" exclaimed the young musician joyfully; "I was wondering what your fate might be. I have only just come from the house. Madame Dubois refused me admission; she informed me that you had been firing Spanish novels at Gouge's head. Why Spanish? Is the Spanish variety deadlier? So the villain has had the effrontery to turn us out?"
"Let me make your affinities known to each other," said Tricotrin. "My brother Nicolas—my brother Adolphe. Brother Adolphe has received a scenario of the tragedy already, and he has a knack of inventing brilliant 'curtains.'"
Behind Pitou's back he winked at Petitpas, as if to say, "He little suspects what a surprise you have in store for him!"
"Oh—er—I am grieved to hear of your trouble, monsieur Pitou," said
Petitpas feebly.
"What? 'Grieved'? Come, that isn't all about it!" cried Tricotrin, who attributed his restraint to nothing but diffidence. In an undertone he added, "Don't be nervous, dear boy. Your invitation won't offend him in the least!"
Petitpas breathed heavily. He aspired to prove himself a true bohemian, but his heart quailed at the thought of such expense. Two suppers, two beds, and two little breakfasts as a supplement to his bill would be no joke. It was with a very poor grace that he stammered at last, "I hope you will allow me to suggest a way out, monsieur Pitou? A room at my hotel seems to dispose of the difficulty."
"Hem?" exclaimed Pitou. "Is that room a mirage, or are you serious?"