Bertrand said nothing more; but he went into a corner and beat his head against the wall. In due time the supper was brought; Auguste went to the table with Adèle, and urged Bertrand to sit with them, explaining to the young woman that he was his factotum, his cashier, and not his servant.
Bertrand made a wry face at the word cashier; but he decided at last to seat himself respectfully at the other end of the table. To put him in good humor, Auguste ordered several bottles of good wine. The ruse was successful. By dint of drinking, Bertrand recovered his spirits and no longer looked askance at the young woman.
But when, after supper, he saw Auguste retire with Madame Florimont to a room in which there was only one bed, he muttered:
“You will certainly be taken for the lady’s husband, monsieur.”
“Faith, Bertrand, it will look very much like it to-night.”
“But afterward?”
“Oh! the most important thing to my mind at this moment, my friend, is to get to bed. Do the same. Good-night; to-morrow it will be light.”
“Yes,” said Bertrand, filling his glass once more, “to-morrow it will be light, and we shall still have this hussy on our hands! It would have been just as well to stay in Paris and let me make breeches with Schtrack.”
And Bertrand fell asleep finishing the bottle.