The young messenger returned with a sheepish expression, holding the two-franc piece in his hand.
"Well, where is the syrup, Chicotin?" asked Roncherolle.
"The syrup is at the druggist's, monsieur."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean that it's an outrage! Just fancy that a little bottle no bigger than my wrist costs twelve francs!"
"Twelve francs?"
"Yes, monsieur, syrup of Poupée twelve francs, no less; it wasn't any use for me to say: 'Put me up forty sous' worth in a little pomade box'; he laughed in my face and told me they didn't sell it at retail; he showed me a bottle, all sealed, with the price on it. Then I said: 'If the gout can only be cured at that price, only rich people can be cured!'—'Only rich people have the gout,' said the clerk. I say, bourgeois, that's nonsense, ain't it? For it seems to me that you're none too well fixed."
Violette nudged Chicotin, saying in an undertone:
"You ought to have said that the syrup wasn't ready, and I would have gone out and bought it and paid for it without letting Monsieur de Roncherolle know the price."
"He would have found it out all the same, mamzelle, for the price is pasted on the bottle; it wouldn't have been possible to deceive him, and how he would have sworn then!"