Cherami had eaten his hors-d'œuvre, and was about to attack his beefsteak-châteaubriand, when a short man, dressed with some pretension, with a stupid face and a bald head which seemed to beg for a wig, took his place at the table next to his, and sat down on the cane which Cherami had laid on the bench.
The new-comer jumped to his feet, putting his hand to his posterior, and exclaiming:
"Great heaven! what am I sitting on?"
Cherami picked up his cane and stood it on the floor, between himself and his neighbor.
"It's lucky for you that you didn't break it," he said; "for it would have cost you a pretty penny!"
"I didn't do it purposely, monsieur."
"No matter! if you had broken it, you'd have paid for it!"
"And I hurt myself, too."
"If it had been a blackthorn stick, it would have hurt you much more."
The gentleman did not seem to be consoled by that reflection; he paid no attention to the cane, but was intent only upon rubbing the wounded part of his anatomy. Then he ordered a glass of grog, picked up a newspaper, and began to read, in evident ill-humor. But Cherami, who loved to converse, kept on talking while he ate.