Romain was too busy protecting the pink silk petticoats of the lady who was to share his cab to notice his nephew’s face. Jean gave a little laugh as he regarded his franc under the nearest lamppost.
“Funny thing,” remarked Romain to his companion, “the man I tipped just now laughed like my brother Alphonse—one had not supposed that ces gens-là could resemble one’s family!”
“You probably gave him far too much,” said the lady, with a deep sigh. “You are generous to everyone but me,” and the conversation followed its accustomed channels.
It was a wet night, and even Margot’s overcoat did not succeed in keeping any warmth in Jean, and he was guilty of deliberately wondering if it would be any colder at the bottom of the Seine. It was strange how much he had felt his little meeting with his uncle.
He was not altogether taken by surprise next morning, when he found himself after dressing (a process which he had noticed seemed to lengthen itself out inordinately after a sleepless night) stretched upon the floor, with Margot bending over him.
“What’s the matter?” he asked rather crossly. “What are you making such a fuss about, Margot?” He felt an indisposition to get up; he was very well where he was.
“I heard you fall; you must have fainted, Jean! I knew you would! Oh, I knew you would!”
“Well, never mind!” said Jean. “I suppose I must get up.” He did not know how much Margot helped him, but he was not sorry to find himself lying on his bed again and staring at the ceiling.
“It’s only this bad cold,” he said, half to himself and half to Margot. “People always have colds in the early spring. It’s a bore it’s raining.”
“Your hands are burning hot, Jean; you’ll stay in and keep quite quiet to-day, won’t you?” Margot pleaded.