Auguste could not make up his mind to appear in the guise of a ruined man to the good people who had seen him scattering gold in profusion; a false shame deterred him from going again to the village, and he who had just been declaiming against the passions of men showed that he was not himself exempt from pride and vanity.
Auguste left Bertrand and went out in search of distraction and to dispel the black mood to which his reflections gave birth. Bertrand, left alone, reflected that all hopes of employment had vanished, and said to himself:
“What are we going to do when we haven’t anything left, which won’t be long? Shall I let him live on black bread and water? Sacrebleu! no, that shall never be! I am not capable of filling a clerk’s place—besides, he wouldn’t want me to leave him—but can’t I work without his suspecting it?”
Bertrand thought a few moments, scratched his head, then exclaimed joyfully: “Why the devil didn’t I think of it sooner?” Then he went slowly downstairs and hunted up his friend Schtrack.
“You make breeches, old fellow, don’t you?” said Bertrand to the concierge; “in fact, you’re a tailor——”
“Ja.”
“Do you always have plenty of work?”
“Ja, I haf more than I can do.”
“That’s because you don’t often work. Are you willing to give me some?”
“Preeches?”