“Who can tell what has become of my companions?” said all four, each to himself. “They have perished beyond doubt, or are prisoners at best. Faith! that’s their look-out! Success is very properly the prize of superior intelligence.”
For a whole month Porc-en-Truie slept, Mont-Rognon ate, Allegrignac played the guitar in a whisper, and Maragougnia plotted impossible meannesses.
On the twenty-eighth day of his captivity Mont-Rognon greeted Ali with a smile which he struggled to make as gracious as possible. Ali was terrified to see it, dreading lest his customer should ask him for credit on the strength of such an act of condescension.
“Sit down here opposite to me,” said Mont-Rognon, growing every moment more agreeable to Ali, who was growing every moment more uncomfortable. “I am tired of eating alone. Besides, I have something to say to you.”
The landlord sat down, poured himself out a bumper, and listened.
“Since I have been here I have watched you closely, and the result of my examination is favourable to you. Occupied as I have been, it was impossible for us to exchange much talk, but it was enough to make me appreciate you. I recognise in you one of those bold spirits who, regarding life as a journey, reject from the outset whatever may encumber their progress. Conscience is to them a stranger whose name gives rise to a smile, and remorse a bugbear invented by the weak to restrain the strong. They only require in life that which it is able to offer, but they are not of the kidney to forego one single opening for enjoyment, let the price be what it may. People of my way of thinking are always ready to encourage that spirit. Do you comprehend?”
