Chicotin looked in all directions, then went into the outer room, and returned in a moment, saying:
"There's one little difficulty, bourgeois, and that is that I don't find any wood; the wood pile seems to have gone up in smoke."
"Already! the devil! the wood seems to go faster than the sugar!"
"Oh! that's easy to understand—it's dearer, because—look you, bourgeois, here's a comparison: for fifteen sous, you get three or four sticks of wood; they're bigger than a pound of sugar, to be sure, but they're very soon burned up; in one day they're all gone; whereas, with a pound of sugar, you've got something to lap and sip for a long while!"
"I'll do without fire," said Roncherolle. "Lying in bed, I don't need it, and my little neighbor is going away."
"What a bungling fellow you are, Chicotin!" said Violette to the young messenger, in an undertone; "you shouldn't have said anything, but when you saw that there wasn't any wood in the other room, you should have gone up to my room; you would have found some there. You know that Monsieur de Roncherolle isn't willing that anybody should lend him anything, so we must help him without letting him suspect it; and I don't propose that he shall stay without a fire."
"That is true, I am an idiot!" muttered Chicotin, shaking his head; "but bless my soul! I couldn't guess all that. Never mind, don't worry, I'll fix it all right; I'll find some way to make a fire."
"Monsieur," said the girl, returning to the invalid, "if I remember right, the doctor who came to see you yesterday prescribed medicine for your gout."
"Doctors don't know of any remedy for this disease, my neighbor; several of them have told me this themselves when talking with me."
"Nonsense! I have been told of several people who were entirely cured; and I remember now—it was syrup of Boubée that he told you to take."