“What is that?”
“That I am dependent on another, I who have always gained my own livelihood honestly.”
“Do not let that disturb you, I have enough for two.”
“No, truly; you may believe me if you will; at the end of every month I am tormented by remorse.”
“Good Caderousse!”
“So much so, that yesterday I would not take the two hundred francs.”
“Yes, you wished to speak to me; but was it indeed remorse, tell me?”
“True remorse; and, besides, an idea had struck me.”
Andrea shuddered; he always did so at Caderousse’s ideas.
“It is miserable—do you see?—always to wait till the end of the month.”
“Oh,” said Andrea philosophically, determined to watch his companion narrowly, “does not life pass in waiting? Do I, for instance, fare better? Well, I wait patiently, do I not?”
“Yes; because instead of expecting two hundred wretched francs, you expect five or six thousand, perhaps ten, perhaps even twelve, for you take care not to let anyone know the utmost. Down there, you always had little presents and Christmas-boxes, which you tried to hide from your poor friend Caderousse. Fortunately he is a cunning fellow, that friend Caderousse.”
“There you are beginning again to ramble, to talk again and again of the past! But what is the use of teasing me with going all over that again?”
“Ah, you are only one-and-twenty, and can forget the past; I am fifty, and am obliged to recollect it. But let us return to business.”