“That is what I told you a little while ago, but then you were not in a condition to listen to me.”
“Yes, I admit, I was in torment—not for myself, but for her. But it is all right; let’s not think any more about it, except to laugh at it. Waiter, take out the price of three glasses of water. I can’t be at Giraud’s soon enough. Is it a brilliant affair? Are there many people there?”
“It is not exactly brilliant, but there are a great many people, and I noticed some very pretty women.”
“Pretty women!—Wait till I arrange my cravat.”
“But you know, Bélan, that this adventure was to have reformed you; that you swore never again to have anything to say to the ladies.”
“I did not include all ladies; those who are free are not included in my oath. And then, deuce take it! a man may say that in the first excitement. Let us go to Giraud’s; I will sing; I know a new song. You will suggest to them to ask me to sing, won’t you?”
“You evidently are determined that I shall be your confederate.”
Bélan replied only by making a pirouette; he was in a state of frantic gayety. We walked to Giraud’s, and I advised him not to come in until a few moments after me; I did not wish to have the appearance of having gone to fetch him, and I tried to return unseen, as I had left.
I found Giraud in the reception room, staring in dismay at his two lamps, which were on the point of going out. He did not see that I came in from outside, for he was entirely engrossed by his wicks; and he said as he handed one of them to me:
“This is incomprehensible. You will bear witness that I am putting in new wicks; we will see if they char like the others.”