But a girl having put in an appearance, and then gone away, after walking round the room with a wearied air, Octave began to talk of women. This set Bachelard off again. Women had cost him too much money; he flattered himself that he had had the best in Paris. In his business, one never bargained about such things; just to show that one had something to fall back upon. Now he was giving all that up, he wished to be loved. And, in presence of this bawler chucking bank notes about, Octave thought with surprise of the uncle who exaggerated his stuttering drunkenness to escape the family extortions.
“Don’t boast, uncle,” said Gueulin. “One can always have more women than one wants.”
“Then, you silly fool, why do you never have any?” asked Bachelard.
Gueulin contemptuously shrugged his shoulders.
“Why? Listen! Only yesterday I dined with a friend and his mistress. The mistress at once began to kick me under the table. It was an opportunity, wasn’t it? Well! when she asked me to see her home, I made off, and I haven’t been near her since. Oh! I don’t deny that, for the time being, it might have been very agreeable. But afterward, afterward, uncle! Perhaps one of those women a fellow can never get rid of. I’m not such a fool!”
Trublot nodded his head approvingly, for he also had renounced women of society, through a dread of the troublesome morrows. And Gueulin, coming out of his shell, continued to give examples. One day in the train, a superb brunette, whom he did not know, had fallen asleep on his shoulder; but he had thought twice, what would he have done with her on arriving at the station? Another day, after a wedding, he had found a neighbor’s wife in his room, eh? that was rather cool; and he would have made a fool of himself had it not been for the idea that afterward she would have wanted him to keep her in boots.
“Opportunities, uncle!” said he, coming to an end, “no one has such opportunities as I! But I keep myself in check. Every one, moreover, does the same; one is afraid of what may follow. Were it not for that, it would, of course, be very pleasant! Good morning! good evening! one would see nothing else in the streets.”
Bachelard, becoming wrapped in thought, was no longer listening to him. His bluster had calmed down, his eyes were wet.