“Yes,” went on George simply, apparently unconscious of his friend’s sneer; “sometimes with the curé. And then in summer I water my garden, and Reine and I take a walk on the highroad up to the top of the hill, or in the wood by the river’s side; and then—well, everybody goes to bed early here.”
“Very moral, indeed!” sneered Rouvière again, picking his teeth.
By this time Marianne had cleared away the dinner things, and, after placing a provision of glasses and a bottle of brandy, another of rum, and a case of liqueurs on the table, had finally departed to dine in her turn with Jeannette, and to confide her observations on the obnoxious Parisian to her companion’s sympathizing ear.
III.
“So at last we are alone!” exclaimed Dupuis with a sigh of satisfaction, as the maid closed the door behind her. “Now, Tom, sit down and let us drink. Come and tell me what you think of this brandy. Here’s to your health, old friend!” filling himself a glass of old Cognac and tossing it off excitedly. “Do you know how many years it is since we last met, Tom? Five-and-thirty, Tom—five-and-thirty years!”
“Yes, parbleu!” said Rouvière, helping himself to the brandy. “I suppose it must be some thirty-five years since we parted in the diligence yard, Rue Montmartre. I remember that we swore eternal friendship and constant correspondence. The correspondence did not last long—less than two years, it seems to me—but our friendship, George, it smouldered under its ashes, but it kept alive, my boy!”
The two friends clasped each other’s hands for a moment silently.
“Your brandy is first-rate,” remarked Rouvière presently, as he finished his petit-verre.
“You like it? Bravo! Well, there are still some pleasant hours in life—aren’t there now, Tom?”
“I believe you,” answered the guest meditatively.