"No matter who I love! it's none of your business! Love whoever you please! I don't care a hair of monsieur's whiskers!"
And the tall girl pointed to Laboussole, who smiled and caressed his whiskers, saying:
"All women don't talk that way."
"Ah! so that's how it is!" cried Sans-Cravate, emptying his glass; while Bastringuette resumed her seat at the table, apparently much calmer. "All right! as you choose! To the devil with love, and women! Let's have a drink, my friends; let's have a drink!"
"But it's late," said Paul; "I hear them closing downstairs. Aren't we going now, Sans-Cravate?"
"Go, if you choose—I am going to stay, with my friends, with my true friends!" retorted Sans-Cravate, glaring angrily at the young man.
"No; you are going with me; you have had enough to drink; you mustn't get drunk!"
"What business is it of yours, if it suits me to get drunk? I'm my own master, too. I haven't any woman now to bother me, and bore me to death. Crédié! how I will make things hum now!"
"That will be very pretty!" murmured Bastringuette. "He'll do some fine things. For my part, I don't want anything more to do with men who make beasts of themselves with drink! I prefer a sober lover—they're more refined in their love making."
"Drink! drink! more wine, waiter!" cried Sans-Cravate, determined to befuddle himself still more, in order to avoid manifesting his chagrin over his rupture with his mistress.