Bertrand sometimes interrupted the narrative of his campaigns to talk about Auguste, to whom he was devotedly attached, and to confide to Schtrack his anxiety on account of his lieutenant’s senseless extravagance and his penchant for women; and Schtrack listened to it as he listened to the story of Austerlitz, ejaculating sacretié! from time to time.
Although his patience was tried by hearing nothing else all night, Bertrand nevertheless said to Schtrack:
“Tell me, old fellow, what can I do to keep Monsieur Dalville from ruining himself?”
Schtrack, who had never before been questioned by Bertrand, reflected fully five minutes before he replied:
“Sacretié! let’s take a drink.”
“Yes, let’s take a drink, that’s well said,” rejoined Bertrand, touching the concierge’s glass with his; “but it doesn’t answer my question. I love and respect Monsieur Dalville; I would jump into the fire for him; but, thunder and guns! it breaks my heart to see him pay out money for this one, lend to that one, play for infernally high stakes, spend money in foolish extravagance, and, last of all, injure his health; for what man could stand such a life? And most of those pretty hussies deceive him, I’ll bet! But he won’t listen to me. The heart is all right, oh! the heart is first-class, but the head——”
“Sacretié!” said Schtrack, emptying his glass.
“For instance, that little woman who lives in this house, for all her soft voice and her eyes always on the floor, and although she’s fainted three times on learning of my master’s perfidy, I wouldn’t swear—I have imagined several times that I’ve seen a little man rushing upstairs as if there was a squad of police at his heels.—Do you know who I mean, Schtrack?”
“Ya! ya!”
“Well, who is that little man?”