"Oh! that's different! When one has enough to live on, one certainly has the right to loaf as much as he pleases."
"That's so, isn't it, my dear Courbichon? Ah! I am delighted to see that we agree. We were destined to become close friends; it was written, as the Arabs say."
While conversing thus,—that is to say, while Cherami conversed and his companion listened, with difficulty finding a chance to put in a word or two from time to time,—they had reached the Champs-Élysées. They sauntered toward a spot where a game of bowls was in progress, and looked on for a while. According to his habit, Cherami made his reflections aloud and gave his opinion on the strokes. He did not hesitate to say: "That was wretchedly played!" to the face of the player. The latter, a youngster of sixteen years, came up to him with an irritated air, crying:
"What business is it of yours? Perhaps you wouldn't do as well!"
"No, I flatter myself that I wouldn't do as well, for I would do much better. And if you don't like what I say, my boy, just come with me. There's a shooting-gallery yonder. I will take you for my target, and you take me; we'll see which of us will bring the other down."
The bowler retired without making any reply.
"You are too quick, my dear Monsieur Arthur," said Courbichon, putting his hand on Cherami's shoulder; "you take fire like saltpetre."
"Ah! that's the way I was made, my dear Courbichon. What would you have—a man can't make himself over!—But just let anyone presume to insult you, when you're with me! Bigre! a dwarf, a giant, a colossus—it's all one to me; I would grind him to powder on the spot, and it wouldn't take long!"
Meanwhile, the young bowler, who had returned to his game boiling with rage, had formed a plan to revenge himself upon the person who had said that he bowled badly; and when it was his turn to bowl, he threw the ball with all his force in Cherami's direction, hoping that it would strike his legs. But a small stone caused it to deviate slightly, and, instead of striking Beau Arthur, it came in contact with Monsieur Courbichon's legs. That gentleman staggered, and uttered a piercing shriek. Cherami saw plainly whence the ball came, and saw the bowler laughing uproariously. Instantly, snatching the cane from his companion's hand, he ran toward the author of the assault, shouting:
"Never fear, my poor Courbichon; I will avenge you, and I'll do it thoroughly, too. He'll have his rabbit, the villain!"