"'Serious'?" echoed Tricotrin. "He is as serious as an English adaptation of a French farce." He went on, under his breath, "You mustn't judge him by his manner, I can see that he has turned a little shy. Believe me, he is the King of Trumps."
"Well, upon my word I shall be delighted, monsieur," responded Pitou.
"It was evidently the good kind fairies that led me to the place
Dancourt. I would ask you to step over the way and have a bock, but my
finances forbid."
"Your finances need cause no drought—Adolphe will be paymaster!" declared Tricotrin gaily, shouldering his manuscript. "Come, let us adjourn and give the Réveillon its due!"
Petitpas suppressed a moan. "By all means," he assented; "I was about to propose it myself. I am a real bohemian, you know, and think nothing of ordering several bocks at once."
"Are you sure he is all you say?" whispered Pitou to Tricotrin, with misgiving.
"A shade embarrassed, that is all," pronounced the poet. And then, as the trio moved arm-in-arm toward the café, a second solitary figure emerged from the obscurity of the square.
"Bless my soul!" ejaculated Tricotrin; "am I mistaken, or—Look, look, Adolphe! I would bet ten to one in sonnets that it is Goujaud, the painter, whose plight I mentioned to you!"
"Yet another?" gasped Petitpas, panic-stricken.
"Sst! Hé, Goujaud! Come here, you vagrant, and be entertaining!"
"Well met, you fellows!" sighed Goujaud. "Where are you off to?"