“Very good; I see that we shall be able to come to an understanding! I am not quite so ugly as monsieur; take my arm, I shall frighten you less than he will. Is there a decent café hereabout? Let us go to Rue Saint-Denis. I haven’t looked at you yet, but I am told that you are enchanting; however, I must satisfy myself. Here’s a drug store.”
Daréna led the little hat-maker in front of the drug store, and, placing her under one of those blue globes which cast a sickly light into the street, he scrutinized her, then exclaimed:
“Excellent! Very pretty, on my word! And if we are like this, seen through a colored bottle, what shall we be in a moment? Here’s a café, let’s go in.”
The gentlemen entered the café with Mademoiselle Chichette; they chose a table in the corner, so that they might talk with less constraint, and Daréna said to the waiter:
“A bowl of rum punch—the very best that can be made.”
Poterne made a wry face and whispered to Daréna:
“The little one would be perfectly satisfied with beer; it isn’t worth while to——”
“What’s that? We are growing stingy, are we? Poterne, my friend, you know that I don’t like that sort of thing.”
“Don’t call me Poterne, I tell you.”
“Then be quiet, and don’t annoy me with your foolish reflections.”