This address was accompanied by a look which was by no means difficult to understand.
“Well,” said Andrea, “admitting your love, why do you want me to breakfast with you?”
“That I may have the pleasure of seeing you, my little fellow.”
“What is the use of seeing me after we have made all our arrangements?”
“Eh, dear friend,” said Caderousse, “are wills ever made without codicils? But you first came to breakfast, did you not? Well, sit down, and let us begin with these pilchards, and this fresh butter; which I have put on some vine-leaves to please you, wicked one. Ah, yes; you look at my room, my four straw chairs, my images, three francs each. But what do you expect? This is not the Hôtel des Princes.”
“Come, you are growing discontented, you are no longer happy; you, who only wish to live like a retired baker.”
Caderousse sighed.
“Well, what have you to say? you have seen your dream realized.”
“I can still say it is a dream; a retired baker, my poor Benedetto, is rich—he has an annuity.”
“Well, you have an annuity.”
“I have?”
“Yes, since I bring you your two hundred francs.”
Caderousse shrugged his shoulders.
“It is humiliating,” said he, “thus to receive money given grudgingly,—an uncertain supply which may soon fail. You see I am obliged to economize, in case your prosperity should cease. Well, my friend, fortune is inconstant, as the chaplain of the regiment said. I know your prosperity is great, you rascal; you are to marry the daughter of Danglars.”