The clarinet-like voice continued, more forcibly than before:
"Friends has nothing to do with it! Customers is all I know. You owe me money, and you've got to pay me; the last time you came to my place to drink with your girl, you didn't so much as ask my leave not to pay, but skulked off with your good-for-nothing slut through the back door, while the waiter was busy somewheres else."
"As I hadn't any money, what would have been the sense of my asking leave not to pay? Would that have put any stuff in my pockets?"
"When you haven't got anything to pay with, you shouldn't go and drink at a place where you owe twenty-two francs already."
"Well, that's a good one! I owe you money, and you want me to take away my custom, eh? Why, your wits are wool gathering just now, old Piaulard."
"A fine thing your custom is! Monsieur Ballangier's custom! My word! You're the kind of customer that ruins a place!"
I could doubt no longer: the name of Ballangier rang in my ears; indeed, I had already recognized the man; my face was flushed with shame, and my heart stood still. I dared not stir, or turn my head. I longed to be a hundred miles away. If I could have made my escape unseen by that man, I would have fled without a word. But he would probably see me. What was I to do? How could I hide from him?
All these thoughts passed through my mind at the same instant. The ladies spoke to me, but I did not reply; I had no idea what I was saying. Doubtless my perturbation was reflected on my face, for Armantine cried:
"What on earth is the matter with you, Monsieur Rochebrune? You seem to be in pain; aren't you well?"
I stammered something, but I was listening—listening intently. It seemed to me that the voices came still nearer.