“But you haven’t two blue phials, and——”
“I insist on your going yourself, or else I won’t try to live.”
These last words were accompanied by such violent gnashing of the teeth, that the affectionate Alfred, fearing that his mistress would dislocate her jaw, hastened to take his hat, saying to Jéricourt:
“I must humor her; you see what a paroxysm she is having, and her blue phial contains some salt, I don’t know what—some mixture that brings her round at once. So that she often sends me to get it, for she never remembers to take it with her. I will run to her house; luckily it isn’t far—Rue Basse. But for all that it isn’t amusing.—Don’t leave her, Jéricourt, above all things; do what you can for her.”
“Never fear.”
The dandified Saint-Arthur, leaving Bonvalet’s, almost ran to Rue Basse-du-Temple, and on reaching his mistress’s abode, was received by her maid, who also was dining, and who had hurriedly locked the dining-room door, taking the precaution to remove the key; she ushered the young lion into the salon, saying:
“Come in here, monsieur, and wait; I’ll go and fetch madame’s phial.”
“I could have waited in the reception room just as well; I’m in a hurry.”
“No, indeed, monsieur, I should think not! I know too well what I owe you; stay here, I won’t be long.”