“Of course,” replied Breloque, “unless the interest you feel in my story prompts you to inquire what became of the different personages.”
“Interest never prompts me to do anything,” I replied; “I like everything to be in its proper place. It is therefore better to know what the characters are now doing, than to risk meeting them in places where they are least expected.”
“The fox,” continued Breloque, “came across our common enemy. One day venturing to carry off Cocotte, he was shot by the farmer, who hung his tail up as a trophy.”
“What became of the cock?”
“Listen; he is crowing, the cowardly, stupid, selfish rascal!”
“Have you not for the fox the same hatred I have for the cock?”
“Do not deceive yourself; the fox was the craftiest rogue you ever met. Had he succeeded in deluding the farmer as he deceived you, his thirst would have been slaked with the blood of Cocotte. He would have proved as benevolent as a Bashi-Bazouk in Bulgaria.”
“I don’t doubt that,” said Breloque, “but I am sorry for it.”
