"The Gymnase it is!"
Dumouton took from his pocket an old notebook, or wallet, or, to speak more accurately, two pieces of leather—just what to call it, I do not know; but it contained a mass of papers, some old and soiled, others clean and new. He produced from it a pink one, which proved to be a ticket for a box at the Gymnase. I took the ticket and read at the foot of it the name of one of our most popular authors.
Dumouton restored his papers to his pocket, put his umbrellas under his left arm once more, and looked at me with an anxious expression, murmuring:
"Don't you want it?"
"Yes, indeed! But I was reading the name on it."
"Oh! that's of no consequence; I asked for it for him, but he can't go. You'll take it, then, will you?"
"There's only one thing. I have promised a box to some people to whom I am under obligations, and I can't break my word. It's too late to go to the theatre to ask for one, so I must buy one of a ticket broker; and I don't know whether——"
I did not let him finish the sentence.
"I don't propose that you shall be put to any expense on my account. How much will the ticket cost you?"