“Are they favourites of his? Fill up your glass, Prosper.”
Cordonnier babbled on.
“That fellow Paul Rance has a tin of milk a day; I have to carry it down each morning.”
“What, is he ill?”
“La grippe. And that reminds me of a funny thing, monsieur. I happened to go down to the café when he was taken ill, and he was all alone there in bed, and talking to himself in German.”
Bibi sat very still in his chair.
“But that sounds absurd. How did you know it was German?”
“Well, it was not French, monsieur; but of course, nobody ever pays any attention to me, so I never mention such a thing to anybody.”
He raised his glass and drank to his own neglected dignity.
“It is a great mistake to gossip, monsieur. I always hold my tongue. I’m not an old woman.”