"In that case, it will be another long while before I see you again?" he said at last. "That troubles me—especially as there are times when a friend is very essential!"

Cherami shook his head, rubbed his chin, and added, between his teeth:

"I haven't my cue at this moment—I need it damnably!"

Gustave glanced at the ex-beau, whose piteous expression was even more noticeable against his wretched costume; then he exclaimed:

"Can I do anything for you, my dear friend? If so, tell me, I beg; I should be happy to be of any service to you!"

"Faith! my dear fellow, I will not conceal from you that I am at this moment absolutely cleaned out. I counted on some money that was owing me; my quarterly income isn't due for six weeks."

"You need money? Why, in heaven's name, didn't you tell me? I am entirely at your service. How much do you need?"

"Why, at this moment—it's very cold—my rascal of a tailor broke his word—so—I ought to have—say, a hundred francs, to furbish me up a bit."

"A hundred francs! Why, you couldn't do anything with that. Here, my good friend, here's five hundred! Take it; I can spare it."

Gustave took a banknote from his wallet as he spoke, and handed it to Cherami, who could not restrain a joyful movement when he received that windfall; he seized the young man's hand and pressed it with all his strength, crying:

"Ah! you are the friend I have dreamed about! My dear Gustave, I shall never forget what you do for me at this moment! Henceforth we are friends in life and death! I cannot name the exact day when I shall be able to repay this money——"

"Eh? who said anything about that? I have more money than I need, and, I say again, I am delighted to be able to be of service to you."

"Excellent and worthy friend! You are made on the antique pattern; you have something of Socrates and of Marcus Aurelius about you. So you don't want me to kidnap Fanny?"

"No, I won't have it!"

"Well, if you change your mind, you have only to write me a line at the same address: Cherami, HÔtel du Bel-Air, Rue de l'Orillon, Belleville. By the way, I will call on your uncle's concierge now and then, to find out whether you have returned. Sapristi! it pains me to have you go."

"I shall return—and perhaps I shall be more reasonable."

"Then we will enjoy ourselves, we will laugh and make merry! Au revoir, then, my dear Gustave! If you have any commission for me, write me a line. But prepay your letters, for my hostess has a habit of refusing to take in those that have to be paid for."

"What! even when they are for her tenants?"

"Above all, when they are for her tenants."

Gustave walked away after shaking hands with Cherami, who looked after him with a touched expression, saying to himself:

"Excellent heart! he reconciles me with mankind; clearly, there still are such things as friends; they are rare, but, still, they do exist, and it's simply a matter of finding them. Now, I must see about getting some comfortable duds; that won't be an extravagance. When anyone brushes against me, I am always afraid he'll carry away a piece of my coat."

Cherami soon found one of the great furnishing shops where you can procure a complete change of raiment, from head to foot. He bought a pair of trousers, very full, a thickly padded waistcoat, and a roomy coat; and he put them all on over the clothes he was wearing.

"I am like Bias, one of the seven sages of Greece," he said; "I carry my whole wardrobe on my back."

Cherami made all these purchases for ninety francs. He left the shop much stouter than he entered, and his double trousers compelled him to walk with a certain gravity. But he was so content, he considered himself so comely in his new clothes, that he smiled benignly on everybody, even on the cabmen who passed him. But something was still lacking: since he had restored Monsieur Courbichon's cane, he had not replaced it, for lack of funds; and that was to him a great privation. Now he could gratify his longing; a man who has four hundred and ten francs in his pocket, after purchasing a new outfit throughout, can well afford to humor his fancy for a cane.

Cherami spied a shop where canes of all sorts were for sale; he examined a score, among which there were some very expensive ones. After hesitating for some time between a superb Malacca joint at seventy-five francs, and a light switch at a hundred sous, he finally decided upon the latter. "For, after all," he reflected, "I don't need a cane to lean on! Thank God, I haven't the gout! I will take the switch; it can be used as a crop when I ride; and then, I like something that bends—one can play with it."

Armed with his switch, with which he beat the air in a very unpleasant fashion for those who passed him, Cherami betook himself to the Palais-Royal, saying to himself:

"I think I will dine at Les FrÈres ProvenÇaux. I like that old-fashioned house; you are always treated well there. It's a little dear, perhaps, but one can't pay too much for what is good."

"Pray be careful, monsieur! you hit me with your cane!"

"What's the matter, monsieur? what are you complaining about?"

"You hit me with your cane, I tell you."

"In the first place, monsieur, it isn't a cane; it's a switch; in the second place, you have only to walk farther away from me."

"Monsieur, I am on the sidewalk, as you are. I have a right to be here, I fancy."

"What's all this?—Cheap talk? impertinence? If you're not satisfied, monsieur, say so at once; I'm your man; I won't run away!"

His interlocutor, who had not left home with the intention of fighting a duel, quickened his pace and disappeared without making any further reply.

Cherami began to wave his switch about as before.

"These fellows are amazing, on my word!" he muttered. "They want to frighten me out of playing with this little stick. As if I would put myself out—as if——"

But this time he concluded to stop, hearing the crash of broken glass; he had shattered with his switch a beautiful mirror which formed part of the show-window of a perfumer's shop. The mistress of the establishment was already in her doorway, where she said to Cherami in an angry tone:

"You broke that mirror, monsieur; you broke it!"

Beau Arthur, with no outward indication of excitement, smiled at the perfumeress as he rejoined:

"Very good! my dear woman, if I broke your mirror, I'll pay for it. You shouldn't lose your temper for a little thing like that. How much will it cost to replace it?"

"Twenty francs, monsieur."

"Twenty francs! here's your money! a mere bagatelle!—I am not sorry to have christened my switch," he added, as he walked away.