"Ain't you satisfied with us?" inquired the water-carrier; "I should say that I said just what you told me to."
"That is to say, you said it when you shouldn't have, and held your tongue when you should have answered."
"I didn't say a single word," observed the Piedmontese.
"It's lucky you didn't! That would have been the last straw! Well, that's all for to-day; you may go back to your cask; but be here to-morrow at half-past seven sharp, dressed just the same; don't forget it!"
"For five francs more apiece?"
"Of course, as that's what we agreed."
"We won't fail."
The next day, the two water-carriers appeared at seven o'clock, each in his costume of the preceding day: the Piedmontese in the late Louchard's green sack-coat and gray hat, which he was obliged to push up from his face every minute, so that he could see where he was going. Cherami dressed in haste; he paid particular attention to his toilet, which presented a striking contrast to that of his two seconds; then he requested his landlady to send for a cab. Madame Louchard was much disturbed when she recognized the coat and hat of her deceased husband on the water-carrier.
"Why have you rigged that fellow up like that?" she asked her tenant. "He'll just ruin my husband's things. I wouldn't have lent 'em to you, if I'd known you wanted 'em for him. Are you going to a wedding so early in the morning?"
"Widow Louchard, I will be responsible for your chattels—don't bother us! Your man's cast-off clothes are more fortunate than they deserve, to be present at such a festivity.—Get in, messieurs."