"Between ourselves, I am afraid poor Dodichet has turned out badly. He amused himself by perpetrating practical jokes that were much too dangerous, sometimes. I found him one day at poor old Mirotaine's, where he had brought a supposititious marrying man. I recognized the latter as a druggist from Pontoise, with a wife of his own. The result was confusion, disillusionment, revolution! That was a very poor joke."
"I heard about that. Yes, Dodichet wastes his whole life inventing such monkey tricks, which raise a laugh for the moment, but never have a beneficial result for the man who perpetrates them."
"I am sorry, for Dodichet is a good fellow at bottom."
"A good fellow! We think we have said everything, when we remark, in speaking of a man: 'He's a good fellow.'—For my part, I consider that that epithet is almost always applied to a person with whom it is advisable to avoid any intimate connection, for the good fellow is constantly doing idiotic things: he squanders his money like a fool, and, when it's all gone, thinks it the most natural thing in the world to borrow and never pay. He owes his tailor, his shoemaker, everybody he deals with. He never has a sou in his pocket; but if you ask him to join a party of any sort, he always accepts, and you have to pay for him. Sometimes he will even invite you to dine at one of the best restaurants in Paris; he will entertain you magnificently, sparing neither truffles nor champagne; but when it comes to paying the bill, which may amount to forty francs, he will find only fifty sous in his purse and ask you to advance the rest. He will make an intimate friend of anybody he happens to meet, and sometimes finds himself playing billiards with sharpers, because he is so trustful that he calls people whose names he doesn't know his friends. He never keeps a promise; he constantly feeds on chimerical illusions, and flatters himself that he is going to win a million of money, when he hasn't a sou in his pocket. That's the kind of person a 'good fellow' is: frankly, I prefer a bad one."
As Adhémar finished, an individual, very shabbily dressed, his body encased in an old, greenish frock-coat, buttoned to the chin, with not a particle of linen in sight, with a shocking round hat, almost brimless, on his head, and patched and muddy old boots on his feet, entered the café with a very pronounced limp, and halted in front of the two friends.
"Well, well!" he cried, "don't you know me? Here I am, faithful to our appointment of last year."
"Dodichet!" cried Dubotté and Adhémar in one breath.
"Yes, messieurs; Dodichet himself: slightly the worse for wear, and exceedingly hard up, as you see; but still ready to laugh when occasion offers!"
"But you are limping, aren't you?"
"Mon Dieu! yes, I am limping, and it's for life too; I shall always limp—it's the result of a fool's trick, an experiment, which I will tell you about directly. But make room for me at your table."