“We quarrelled for good and all. We quitted each other as enemies. He sent round his clerk this afternoon with his account, and I paid it in cash down to the last centime. And now I shall have to go to the Maison Prunier of Périgueux, who are incapable of any honourable understanding and will try to supply me with abominable beverages which will poison and destroy my clientèle.” Recklessly he finished his brandy and poured himself out another portion. Then he passed the bottle to Martin. “_Sers-toi_,” said he, using for the first time the familiar second person singular. Martin was startled, but said nothing. Then he remembered that Bigourdin, contrary to his usual abstemious habits, had been supplied at dinner with a cradled quart of old Corton which awakens generosity of sentiment towards their fellows in the hearts of men. “_Mon brave_,” he remarked, after a pause, “my heart is full of problems which I cannot resolve and I have no one to turn to but yourself.” “I appreciate your saying so very much,” replied Martin; “but why not consult our wise and experienced friend Fortinbras?” “_Voilà_,” cried Bigourdin, waving a great hand. “It is he who sets me the greatest problem of all. Why do you think I have let Félise go away with that pretty whirlwind of an American?” Martin stiffened, not knowing whether this was a disparagement of Lucilla; but Bigourdin, heedless, continued: “It is because she is very unhappy, and it is out of human power to give her consolation. You are a gentleman and a man of honour. I will repose in you a sacred confidence. But that which I am going to tell you, you will swear never to reveal to a living soul.” Martin gave his word. Bigourdin, without touching on long-past sorrows, described the visit of Félise to the Rue Maugrabine. “It was my sister,” said he, “for years sunk in the degradation of drunkenness—so rare among Frenchwomen—it is madness, _que veux-tu_? Often she has gone away to be cured, with no effect. I have urged my brother-in-law to put her away permanently in a _maison de santé_; but he has not been willing. It was he, he maintains, who in far-off, unhappy days, when, _pauvre garçon_, he lifted his elbow too often himself, gave her the taste for alcohol. For that reason he treats her with consideration and even tenderness. _Cest beau._ And he himself, you must have remarked, has not drunk anything but water for many years.” “Of course,” said Martin, and his mind went back to his first meeting with Fortinbras in the lonely Petit Cornichon, when the latter imbibed such prodigious quantities of raspberry syrup and water. It seemed very long ago. Bigourdin went on talking.