He was bitter now against all the world. “What will they care, as long as they have the dinner?” he reflected.
Pasbeaucoup cared. He expressed great concern for monsieur’s health.
“That,” thought Cartaret, “is because I’m rich. A month or two ago and they wouldn’t trust me: they’d have let me starve.”
He went back to his desolate room and to his dreary questioning. He was there, with his head in his hands, when Seraphin found him.
Seraphin’s suit was still new, and it was evident that he had dressed carefully his twin wisps of whisker in honor of Cartaret’s celebration. The Frenchman’s face was grave.
“Why aren’t you dining?” sneered Cartaret.
Seraphin passed by the sneer.
“They told me that you were ill,” he said, simply.
“And you came to see if it was true?”