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 exclaimed the illustrious actor, in whose mind bitter memories were awakened.

“The fact is—­” continued M. Chebe.

They drew closer to each other and talked.  The hearts of both were full in respect to Sidonie and Risler.  They opened the flood-gates.  That Risler, with all his good-nature, was an egotist pure and simple, a parvenu.  They laughed at his accent and his bearing, they mimicked certain of his peculiarities.  Then they talked about his household, and, lowering their voices, they became confidential, laughed familiarly together, were friends once more.

M. Chebe went very far:  “Let him beware! he has been foolish enough to send the father and mother away from their daughter; if anything happens to her, he can’t blame us.  A girl who hasn’t her parents’ example before her eyes, you understand—­”

“Certainly—­certainly,” said Delobelle; “especially as Sidonie has become a great flirt.  However, what can you expect?  He will get no more than he deserves.  No man of his age ought to—­Hush! here he is!”

Risler had entered the room, and was walking toward them, distributing hand-shakes all along the benches.

There was a moment of embarrassment between the three friends.  Risler excused himself as well as he could.  He had been detained at home; Sidonie had company—­Delobelle touched M. Chebe’s foot under the table—­and, as he spoke, the poor man, decidedly perplexed by the two empty glasses that awaited him, wondered in front of which of the two he ought to take his seat.

Delobelle was generous.

“You have business together, Messieurs; do not let me disturb you.”

He added in a low tone, winking at Risler: 

“I have the papers.”

“The papers?” echoed Risler, in a bewildered tone.

“The estimates,” whispered the actor.

Thereupon, with a great show of discretion, he withdrew within himself, and resumed the reading of his documents, his head in his hands and his fingers in his ears.

The two others conversed by his side, first in undertones, then louder, for M. Chebe’s shrill, piercing voice could not long be subdued.—­He wasn’t old enough to be buried, deuce take it!—­He should have died of ennui at Montrouge.—­What he must have was the bustle and life of the Rue de Mail or the Rue du Sentier—­of the business districts.