"Oh! no," I replied, laughing also. "Only he brings me the 'Fin de Siècle,' the 'Rigolo,' the 'Petites Femmes de Paris'."
That set him off in a delirium of joy, and, shaking more than ever with laughter, he cried:
"Papa! Oh! he is astonishing!"
And, being now well started, he continued in a comical tone:
"He is like mamma. Yesterday she made me another scene. I am disgracing her,—her and papa. Would you believe it? And religion, and society, and everything! It is twisting. Then I declared to her: 'My dear little mother, it is agreed; I will settle down to a regular life on the day when you shall have given up your lovers.' That was a hot one, eh? That shut her up. Oh! no, you know, they make me very tired, these authors of my being. I have supped on their lectures. By the way, you know Fumeau, don't you?"
"No, Monsieur Xavier."
"Why, yes ... why, yes ... Anthime Fumeau?"
"I assure you that I do not."
"A fat fellow, very young, very red-faced, ultra-stylish, the finest teams in Paris. Fumeau ... an income of three millions. Tartlet the Kid? Why, yes, you know him."
"But I tell you that I do not know him."