While the bath keeper stumbled into the house, urging his neighbor to come in, the latter said in Ambroisine's ear:
"Your father has thrashed, beaten, half killed a little solicitor's clerk, who was regaling himself at my place. He is a regular hothead when he is sober; but now he's a perfect lamb; and he embraced his victim! He ought to be drunk all the time, mademoiselle, for he is much more agreeable in company then."
The cabaretier took his leave, and Ambroisine returned to her father, who had seated himself at a table and was striking it with his hand, crying:
"Ambroisine, give us some wine and goblets; our neighbor is going to take a glass with me.—Well! where is our neighbor?"
"He has gone back, father; for it is very late. It is time for everyone to be getting to bed, and you will do well to go; you are not thirsty now—you have drunk enough."
Hugonnet seemed not to have heard his daughter; he passed his hand over his eyes, sighed profoundly, and stammered:
"Poor little solicitor—for I think he was a solicitor—the idea of beating him like that! A boy no taller than my cane! It's a shame! it's disgusting! there are people who abuse their strength over feeble creatures!"
"But, father, I understand that it was you who beat this little clerk! What had he done to you, pray? for you certainly don't pick quarrels with people without some reason!"
"I! it is impossible! He is my friend, that little dwarf; I would like to embrace him. Poor boy! he wanted pomade; I told him I hadn't any. He insisted on having some, and declared that a barber ought to make pomade. Poor fellow!"
"And you beat him because he asked you for some pomade! A pretty subject for a quarrel that!"