At last, Messieurs Kingerie and Fourriette appeared on the road; the first, as awkward as ever, began by upsetting a box of cactus which stood in a path where there was much more room than he required. As for the druggist, a dark-haired, very good-looking youth, he was all curled and perfumed, and made eyes at all the ladies, to whom he did not fail to offer pastilles which he had made himself. “Take care, madame, take care,” said Dufournelle, “it is very imprudent to accept monsieur’s pastilles; you don’t know what he may have put in them! He is quite capable of giving you something that will make you fall in love with him.” “If I knew that secret, I should not fail to make use of it,” said Monsieur Fourriette, still offering his box and smiling at the ladies. “Well! I don’t care, I will take the risk!” said Mademoiselle Mangeot, putting her fingers in the bonbonnière. “It seems to me,” said Mademoiselle Dufournelle in an undertone, “that she isn’t the one who is taking the risk at this moment!--Well, I will take the risk myself.” “Let’s rehearse, my friends, let’s rehearse; just see how the time is passing; let us go to the theatre at once, we are all here.” “All except the three robbers with speaking parts.” “We will omit that scene.” “And the child,--we must have the child, we must make sure that he knows his part.” “Astianax, go and fetch little Codinde, the gardener’s son.” “Here’s the gardener himself coming this way; he looks as if he wanted to speak to you.” “The deuce! the fellow looks to me as if he had already had a touch of sunstroke.” Monsieur Pichet, the gardener, was in fact approaching the company, and as he was quite conscious of the fact that his legs wavered under him, he was walking very slowly to maintain his equilibrium, and was trying hard to keep his head back and his body upright. “Pichet, go and get little Codinde, your son,” said Monsieur Glumeau; “we want him for the rehearsal; go at once.” Instead of obeying his master and fetching Codinde, the gardener tried to straighten himself up, and answered in a thick voice: “It’s impossible, monsieur; it’s impossible! Codinde is just what I wanted to talk to monsieur about.” “Can it be that anything has happened to him?” “An attack of indigestion has happened to him; we thought he was going to choke to death; he was purple.” “The devil take you! Why do you stuff your son so’s to make him sick?” “It wasn’t us, monsieur; the little glutton stuffs himself. As there’s a celebration going on in the house, he must have found lots of things to eat; bless my soul! children, you know, they ain’t reasonable.” “And then, too, you set him such an excellent example!” “Why, monsieur--I haven’t eaten as much as your thumb to-day, saving your presence.” “No, but you have drunk enough to make up for it.” “I’ve drunk very moderate; besides, wine never upsets me, I’m so used to it.” “So, Pichet, your son won’t be in condition to act to-night?”