touched M. Chebe's foot under the
table--and, as he spoke, the poor man, decidedly perplexed by the two
empty glasses that awaited him, wondered in front of which of the two he
ought to take his seat.

Delobelle was generous.

"You have business together, Messieurs; do not let me disturb you."

He added in a low tone, winking at Risler:

"I have the papers."

"The papers?" echoed Risler, in a bewildered tone.

"The estimates," whispered the actor.

Thereupon, with a great show of discretion, he withdrew within himself,
and resumed the reading of his documents, his head in his hands and his
fingers in his ears.

The two others conversed by his side, first in undertones, then louder,
for M. Chebe's shrill, piercing voice could not long be subdued.--He
wasn't old enough to be buried, deuce take it!--He should have died of
ennui at Montrouge.--What he must have was the bustle and life of the Rue
de Mail or the Rue du Sentier--of the business districts.

"Yes, but a shop? Why a shop?" Risler timidly ventured to ask.

"Why a shop?--why a shop?" repeated M. Chebe, red as an Easter egg, and
raising his voice to its highest pitch. "Why, because I'm a merchant,
Monsieur Risler, a merchant and son of a merchant. Oh! I see what you're
coming at. I have no business. But whose fault is it? If the people who
shut me up at Montrouge, at the gates of Bicetre, like a paralytic, had
had the good sense to furnish me with the money to start in business--"

At that point Risler succeeded in silencing him, and thereafter only
snatches of the conversation could be heard: "a more convenient
shop--high ceilings--better air--future plans--enormous business--I will
speak when the time comes--many people will be astonished."

As he caught these fragments of sentences, Delobelle became more and more
absorbed in his estimates, presenting the eloquent back of the man who is
not listening. Risler, sorely perplexed, slowly sipped his beer from time
to time to keep himself, in countenance.

At last, when M. Chebe had grown calm, and with good reason, his
son-in-law turned with a smile to the illustrious Delobelle, and met the
stern, impassive glance which seemed to say, "Well! what of me?"

"Ah! Mon Dieu!--that is true," thought the poor fellow.

Changing at once his chair and his glass, he took his seat opposite the
actor. But M. Chebe had not Delobelle's courtesy. Instead of discreetly
moving away, he took his glass and joined the oth