"So your début—you've got to begin again, eh?"
"Thanks, no! I have no desire to try it again in the same line. My voice won't come back."
"Oh! you smoke too much! I told you so! Luckily, your aunt's dead; a friend of yours told me."
"Yes, my aunt's dead, that's true; but she disinherited me!"
"Oh! my poor boy! what a grind! But, thank heaven! you still have your gold mine—the man who can't refuse you when you ask him for money—the man with the mystery!"
"My dear girl, the man with the mystery has followed my aunt's example; that is, he hasn't disinherited me, but he's dead."
"Oh! mon Dieu! Did someone mention Pontoise to him?"
"Better than that: someone sang him a song that was written about him at Pontoise, in which they poked fun at him about his accident; for I can tell you now what it was that that jackass was so afraid people would find out. Sieur Seringat had a very pretty wife, whom he believed to be a regular Lucretia. The fellow had the bad habit of making sport of deceived husbands, of laughing at their expense, and saying that no such misfortune would ever happen to him. But, lo and behold! one day, at an outdoor fête, our Seringat saw a veiled lady in the distance, just at dusk, slip into an isolated summer house, where, not long after, she was joined by a young officer. Feeling sure that the lady he had seen was the wife of one of the leading men of the town, Seringat got together several young men, confided his discovery to them, and guided them to the pavilion, which was not lighted, but which they entered, carrying torches, on the pretext of illuminating it. Whom did they find there? Whom but Madame Seringat, in criminal conversation with the young officer! Who was sheepish and shamefaced then? Who but Seringat; for all the husbands in Pontoise revenged themselves on him, and that same evening his misadventure was known all over the town. Seringat, in his rage and vexation at becoming one of that class at which he had always laughed, left Pontoise the next day, swearing never to return. He took the name of Miflorès, and anybody who knew him could get anything out of him by threatening to disclose his name and his adventure. In fact, he was drowned not long ago, because a man from Pontoise chased him, calling him by his real name, and singing a couplet in which he was ridiculed about his accident. In his haste to escape, Seringat, who was trying to get aboard a boat, made a misstep, fell into the river, and was drowned.—Now you know, my dear girl, how I made him lend me money. He had so much self-esteem, and was so vexed at wearing a pair of horns, that you had only to threaten to tell about it, to obtain all you wanted."
"Well, he was a Gribouille, on my word! to throw himself into the water for fear someone would know he had taken a fancy to the yellow! If all the husbands that happens to should run into the river, the fish would get a good fright!—And what are you going to do now, my poor Dodichet?"
"I am going to make a cigarette."