“I say, neighbor, haven’t you g—g—gone to bed, n—n—neighbor? What would you s—s—say if I should ask you to l—l—light my little c—c—candle-end?”
I was curious to see neighbor Pettermann, and before Ernest had had time to drop Marguerite’s hand, I opened the door.
The tailor was still young, with a frank, honest face; but the habit of drinking too much had made his nose purple and swollen, and his dress was marked by a lack of order which also betrayed his intemperance.
On seeing me, he opened his eyes and said:
“Hello! have I made a mistake? This is funny. Ain’t this my neighbor’s door, or has she moved?”
“No, monsieur,” said Ernest, “but don’t shout so loud; she is sick. What do you want?”
“Ah! she is sick, is she, poor little woman!” And Monsieur Pettermann walked toward the bed, saying: “Are you sick, my little woman? What’s the matter with you?”
Ernest stopped the tailor, who was reeking with liquor; and he, always very polite, although tipsy, fearing that he had done something wrong, stepped back to the armchair in which the midwife was seated, and sank upon her lap, saying:
“I beg pardon, that’s so; it’s none of my business. Ah! prout!”
“Will you get up?” cried the nurse, striking the tailor in the back. He turned about, stammering: