“I imagine that Père Calleux is as fond of wine as of cabbage soup,” said Auguste to himself as he scrutinized the peasant.
“What can I do for you, monsieur?” asked the latter.
“I met your son Coco on the road——”
“Ah! where is he, I’d like to know? He was going to bring me my dinner.—Coco! what are you doing there?”
“Wait until I tell you the whole story; as I was looking at a fine view, I ran into the child, and I knocked the bowl he was carrying out of his hands; it broke, and——”
“You’ll pay for it, that’s all; for you’re to blame for my having no dinner.”
“Oh! that’s but fair; that’s why I came to speak to you. How much do I owe you? Name the price.”
“Well, monsieur, it was a good soup-bowl; it was worth all of thirty sous; and there was twelve sous’ worth of soup in it; for pork’s dear round here——”
“See, here’s five francs; are you satisfied?”
“Oh, yes! monsieur; that’s fair enough; I haven’t got anything to say.”