“It is very warm, monsieur. What shall I pay you for the wine?”
“Nothing,” said Bibi.
“But, monsieur——”
“You did me a good turn once, I don’t forget. Pour me out a glass, old chap.”
Cordonnier had laid a hand upon one of the most potent of Mademoiselle Barbe’s bottles, and in a little while the cords of his tongue were loosened. He became affectionate, talkative, foolishly confidential, dragging his box close to Louis Blanc’s chair, and tapping him on the knee with an intimate finger. He began to gossip about Beaucourt, the peasant part of Beaucourt. He had his grievances. His dignity in Beaucourt had never been sufficiently considered.
“Tiens, but what do I do at my age but run messages for Anatole Durand! And believe me, monsieur, I get two francs a day for it, my food, and a couple of blankets. Because a man has learnt to hold his tongue some people think he is worth nothing at all.”
Bibi sympathized with him. Old Cordonnier was a prodigious bore, but a blind man has to be patient.
“He is a dull dog, old Durand.”
“What I complain of, monsieur, is that he has favourites. Look at Manon Latour and that fellow, Paul Rance.”
Bibi yawned.