"Oh! monsieur, I am fifty-five."

"That is the very prime of life, the age at which a man makes most conquests, because he knows better how to go about it. Ah! I would like to be fifty-five! I hope to get there, but I haven't yet. You have some means?"

"Five or six thousand francs a year, which I made in dried fruit."

"A very pretty business!--That isn't a magnificent fortune, but it is that pleasant mediocrity so highly praised by Horace. Do you know Horace?"

"Yes, I have seen it played at the Theatre-Francais."

"Ah! I guess we will stop there! Have you children, excellent Courbichon?"

"I have a daughter, monsieur,--a married daughter; I have set her up in business."

"In dried fruit?"

"No, monsieur; she is in olive oil."

"Oh! the deuce! that's very different! But it will preserve her longer.

You have no other daughter?"

"No, monsieur."

"What a pity!"

"Why so, monsieur?"

"Because I feel so strongly attracted to you that I would have asked her hand in marriage. Faith! yes, I would have renounced my liberty, which I have never done yet--but there's an end to everything. Does your son-in-law enjoy good health?"

"Yes, monsieur, excellent!"

"So much the worse!"

"Why so much the worse?"

"Because, if he should die soon, I might marry his widow."

"Oh! what an idea, monsieur!"

"He is in good health, so there's an end of that; let us say no more about it. Don't be alarmed; I have no idea of killing him. If he had insulted me, I don't say----"

"A thousand pardons, monsieur; but I should be very glad to know your name."

"My name? So you have forgotten it, have you? But I was called by name often enough at young Blanquette's wedding party--while I was dancing with Aunt Merlin."

"I don't remember it."

"My name is Arthur Cherami."

Courbichon, thinking that his companion was addressing him as his dear friend (_cher ami_), replied:

"Oh! yes, your name is Arthur---- Nothing more?"

"What do you say? nothing more? Why, I have just told you--Arthur Cherami."

"Yes, I understand--Arthur; that's a very pretty name. Are you in business?"

"I don't do anything; I live on my income, like you."

"Oh! that's different! When one has enough to live on, one certainly has the right to loaf as much as he pleases."

"That's so, isn't it, my dear Courbichon? Ah! I am delighted to see that we agree. We were destined to become close friends; it was written, as the Arabs say."

While conversing thus,--that is to say, while Cherami conversed and his companion listened, with difficulty finding a chance to put in a word or two from time to time,--they had reached the Champs-elysees. They sauntered toward a spot where a game of bowls was in progress, and looked on for a while. According to his habit, Cherami made his reflections aloud and gave his opinion on the strokes. He did not hesitate to say: "That was wretchedly played!" to the face of the player. The latter, a youngster of sixteen years, came up to him with an irritated air, crying:

"What business is it of yours? Perhaps you wouldn't do as well!"

"No, I flatter myself that I wouldn't do as well, for I would do much better. And if you don't like what I say, my boy, just come with me.

There's a shooting-gallery yonder. I will take you for my target, and you take me; we'll see which of us will bring the other down."

The bowler retired without making any reply.

"You are too quick, my dear Monsieur Arthur," said Courbichon, putting his hand on Cherami's shoulder; "you take fire like saltpetre."

"Ah! that's the way I was made, my dear Courbichon. What would you have--a man can't make himself over!--But just let anyone presume to insult you, when you're with me! Bigre! a dwarf, a giant, a colossus--it's all one to me; I would grind him to powder on the spot, and it wouldn't take long!"

Meanwhile, the young bowler, who had returned to his game boiling with rage, had formed a plan to revenge himself upon the person who had said that he bowled badly; and when it was his turn to bowl, he threw the ball with all his force in Cherami's direction, hoping that it would strike his legs. But a small stone caused it to deviate slightly, and, instead of striking Beau Arthur, it came in contact with Monsieur Courbichon's legs. That gentleman staggered, and uttered a piercing shriek. Cherami saw plainly whence the ball came, and saw the bowler laughing uproariously. Instantly, s.n.a.t.c.hing the cane from his companion's hand, he ran toward the author of the a.s.sault, shouting:

"Never fear, my poor Courbichon; I will avenge you, and I'll do it thoroughly, too. He'll have his rabbit, the villain!"

The youngster who had thrown the ball fled when he saw Cherami running toward him. But Cherami pursued him; while Monsieur Courbichon rubbed his legs, saying:

"This is the first time such a thing ever happened to me while I was watching the game; and it's the more surprising, because I wasn't in line with the pins. So it must have been done on purpose; but why should the fellow aim at my legs? I didn't make any comment on his play--I didn't have any dispute with him.--This will certainly leave a mark on my legs.--Where in the deuce has Monsieur Arthur gone? That man is too quick-tempered."

In a few minutes, Cherami returned, flushed and triumphant, crying:

"You are avenged, my dear Courbichon! yes, what anyone would call thoroughly avenged; the rascal has had what he deserved; and here's the proof."

As he spoke, he handed his new friend his beautiful cane broken in two.

Monsieur Courbichon was dumfounded, and gazed with an air of consternation at the pieces of the cane.

"Ah! mon Dieu!" he faltered; "it is broken!"

"True--it is broken; but I broke it on the back of the ragam.u.f.fin who threw his ball at your skittles--I mean, your legs."

"What a pity! You struck him too hard."

"One cannot strike an enemy too hard."