"Our dear Plays—as it pleases you to call him so—asked me, in the course of conversation, if I knew you; and, on my replying in the affirmative, urged me, if I should happen to see you, to beg you to avoid him, inasmuch as his wife has ordered him to kill you, because, it seems, you insulted and deceived her shamefully; that is all Plays chose to tell me."
Tobie roared with laughter.
"Gad! that is charming! delicious! Ah! she employs her husband to kill me, now! I can guess why. Poor husband! luckily, he is good enough to warn me. I thank you for your warning, my dear Monsieur Dupétrain, but I assure you that Monsieur Plays doesn't worry me at all; he's no duellist, and, besides, I shall only have to say a single word to him to—— Alas! I would to God I had no duel to reproach myself for!"
Again Tobie drew his handkerchief, as if deeply moved.
"I am delighted that this affair doesn't worry you," rejoined Dupétrain; "in that case, we can return to that anecdote that I didn't have time to finish: A young lady, whose husband——"
"Excuse me, Monsieur Dupétrain, but I have an important appointment; I will listen to it some other time, by your leave."
Two days after this conversation, Tobie, who had become a constant attendant at balls, receptions, concerts, and the theatre, since he had inherited his Aunt Abraham's property, found himself face to face with Monsieur Plays and his wife in the foyer of the Opéra.
Madame Plays stopped, cast a withering glance at Tobie, and nudged her husband.
"There he is," she said.
"Who?" queried Monsieur Plays.