"No doubt, my dear friend, no doubt; but in the meanwhile suppose we talk of this annuity. Shall we say one thousand francs a year."
"What!" asked Bonelle, looking at him very fixedly.
"My dear friend, I mistook; I meant two thousand francs per annum," hurriedly rejoined Ramin.
Monsieur Bonelle closed his eyes, and appeared to fall into a gentle slumber. The mercer coughed; the sick man never moved.
"Monsieur Bonelle."
No reply.
"My excellent friend."
Utter silence.
"Are you asleep?"
A long pause.