"We will not add a single denier—we have our reasons for it. Go, cabaretier, and serve it hot."
"Hot! you will have cheese!—I am not in the habit of serving it hot!"
"Ah! poor Bahuchet! where are your days of bluster?" muttered Plumard, digging his nails into his plaster.
"What would you have, Plumard? The days follow, but do not resemble one another!—Your skull is the only thing that persists in not changing; it is infernally obstinate about it."
"Do you remember, Bahuchet, when we regaled ourselves on the costume of my uncle the clothes dealer?—Ha! ha! thirty pistoles—no less; and what a spree we had at Le Roule, for two or three days!"
"I should say so; they had to take you to the hospital; you nearly died of indigestion.—Those were the good times!"
"To be sure, that great idiot of a Gascon chevalier was the cause of our having a scene with my uncle afterward!"
"Yes, but your uncle could never make us give back the money.—Ah! here comes our banquet. Fichtre! the good meat they are bringing can be smelt a long way off!"
"It's cheese—very well done."
The two clerks concluded to attack their breakfast. They stuffed themselves with bread and cheese. But after a moment Bahuchet observed, with a sigh: