I had just left him, and was walking along, musing upon what he had said to me, when someone halted in front of me. It was Dumouton, the debt-ridden man of letters. He had no umbrellas this time, but he carried under his left arm an oval box, of bronzed tin, which seemed to be carefully fastened.
"Bonjour, Monsieur Rochebrune! I recognized you at a distance. You didn't see me, for you were lost in thought. Are you pretty well?"
"Very well, thanks, Monsieur Dumouton."
"Were you thinking out the plot of a play? You seemed very much preoccupied."
"Oh, no! I don't write plays, myself."
"You are very wise! It's a wretched trade since so many people have begun to dabble in it."
I attempted to salute Monsieur Dumouton and leave him; but he detained me, saying with an embarrassed air:
"I beg pardon! I would like to say another word to you, as I have happened to meet you. It's like this. First of all, you must know that one of my children is sick; he's been—out of sorts for a week. And then, we were without a certain household utensil—mon Dieu! why not say it at once—a syringe! We needn't be more prudish than Molière, need we?"
"Surely not; you are perfectly justified in saying a syringe."
"So I said to my wife: 'We must have a syringe!'—'Buy one,' said she. Very good! that's what I did this morning. I bought a clyso-pompe with a constant flow—a new invention. It's exceedingly convenient; it comes in a box; this is it that I have under my arm. Who'd ever suspect there was a syringe in it? It might be lace, or prunes."