“I was trying to persuade him, when he threw one of his gloves at me, saying that he was going to wash it in my blood?”
“Good heavens!—and you?”
“Well ... I told him the best way to clean kid gloves was with benzine!”
Fasolacci is an elegant youth.
He had been spending right and left, so that he found himself unable to pay the bill at the hotel where he was lodging.
Taking his courage in both hands, and laying it before him on his writing-table, he determined to apply to his uncle—the well-known avarice of his father precluding, all hope of assistance from him.
This was his letter:—
“Dear Uncle,—If you could see how I blush, with shame while I am writing, you would pity me. Do you know why?... Because I have to ask you for a hundred francs, and do not know how to express my humble request.... No! it is impossible for me to tell you; I prefer to die!
“I send you this by a messenger, who will await your answer.
“Believe me, my dearest uncle, your most obedient and affectionate nephew,