There was a very different
pair, when I was in the Marquis de Courtivois's service. He was one
who made it a point never to be in good humor. His eldest son, who is
a friend of the viscount's, and who comes here occasionally, is a pit
without a bottom, as far as money is concerned. He will fritter away a
thousand-franc note quicker than Joseph can smoke a pipe."
"But the marquis is not rich," said a little old man, who himself had
perhaps the enormous wages of fifteen francs; "he can't have more than
sixty thousand francs' income at the most."
"That's why he gets angry. Every day there is some new story about
his son. He had an apartment in the house; he went in and out when he
pleased; he passed his nights in gaming and drinking; he cut up so with
the actresses that the police had to interfere. Besides all this, I have
many a time had to help him up to his room, and put him to bed, when the
waiters from the restaurants brought him home in a carriage, so drunk
that he could scarcely say a word."
"Ha!" exclaimed Joseph enthusiastically, "this fellow's service must be
mighty profitable."
"That was according to circumstances. When he was at play, he was lavish
with his money; but he always lost: and, when he was drunk, he had a
quick temper, and didn't spare the blows.
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