That can be faked?"
"Perfectly."
"You accept?" "I embrace your feet. You have saved my life; you have
preserved my hopefulness, you have restored my youth!"
"It is my profession to preserve and restore."
"Ah, mon Dieu!" gasped Flamant in a paroxysm of adoration. "Aurore, I
can no longer refrain from avowing that--"
At this instant the door opened, and there entered solemnly nine young
men, garbed in such habiliments of woe as had never before been seen
perambulating, even on the figures of undertakers. The foremost bore a
wreath of immortelles, which he laid in devout silence on the dinner-table.
"Permit me," said Flamant, recovering himself by a stupendous effort:
"monsieur Tricotrin, the poet--madame Aurore."
"Enchanted!" said the poet, in lugubrious tones. "I have a heavy cold,
thank you, owing to my having passed the early hours of Christmas Day
on a bench, in default of a bed. It is superfluous to inquire as to the
health of madame."
"Monsieur Goujaud, a colleague."
"Overjoyed!" responded Goujaud, with a violent sneeze.
"Goujaud was with me," said Tricotrin.
"Monsieur Pitou, the composer."
"I ab hodoured. I trust badabe is dot dervous of gerbs? There is
nothing to fear," said Pitou.
"So was Pitou!" added Tricotrin.
"Monsieur Sanquereau, the sculptor; monsieur Lajeunie, the novelist,"
continued the host. But before he could present the rest of the
company, Brochat was respectfully intimating to the widow that her
position in the Weeping Alone apartment was now untenable.
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