and that he would meet him at the brewery. It was an
affair of honor, entirely between themselves, from man to man. The real
fact concerning this affair of honor was that M. Chebe had given notice
of his intention to leave the little house at Montrouge, and had hired
a shop with an entresol in the Rue du Mail, in the midst of a business
district. A shop? Yes, indeed! And now he was a little alarmed regarding
his hasty step, anxious to know how his son-in-law would take it,
especially as the shop cost much more than the Montrouge house, and
there were some repairs to be made at the outset. As he had long
been acquainted with his son-in-law's kindness of heart, M. Chebe had
determined to appeal to him at once, hoping to lead him into his game
and throw upon him the responsibility for this domestic change. Instead
of Risler he found Delobelle.

They looked askance at each other, with an unfriendly eye, like two
dogs meeting beside the same dish. Each divined for whom the other was
waiting, and they did not try to deceive each other.

"Isn't my son-in-law here?" asked M. Chebe, eying the documents spread
over the table, and emphasizing the words "my son-in-law," to indicate
that Risler belonged to him and to nobody else.

"I am waiting for him," Delobelle replied, gathering up his papers.

He pressed his lips together, as he added with a dignified, mysterious,
but always theatrical air:

"It is a matter of very great importance."

"So is mine," declared M. Chebe, his three hairs standing erect like a
porcupine's quills.

As he spoke, he took his seat on the bench beside Delobelle, ordered a
pitcher and two glasses as the former had done, then sat erect with his
hands in his pockets and his back against the wall, waiting in his turn.
The two empty glasses in front of them, intended for the same absentee,
seemed to be hurling defiance at each other.

But Risler did not come.

The two men, drinking in silence, lost their patience and fidgeted about
on the bench, each hoping that the other would tire of waiting.

At last their ill-humor overflowed, and naturally poor Risler received
the whole flood.

"What an outrage to keep a man of my years waiting so long!" began M.
Chebe, who never mentioned his great age except upon such occasions.

"I believe, on my word, that he is making sport of us," replied M.
Delobelle.

And the other:

"No doubt Monsieur had company to dinner."

"And such company!" scornfully exc