And though he knew the poor devil, he pretended to see him for the first time, murmured something about “cornea,” “opaque cornea,” “sclerotic,” “facies,” then asked him in a paternal tone⁠—

“My friend, have you long had this terrible infirmity? Instead of getting drunk at the public, you’d do better to die yourself.”

He advised him to take good wine, good beer, and good joints. The blind man went on with his song; he seemed, moreover, almost idiotic. At last Monsieur Homais opened his purse⁠—

“Now there’s a sou; give me back two lairds, and don’t forget my advice: you’ll be the better for it.”

Hivert openly cast some doubt on the efficacy of it. But the druggist said that he would cure himself with an antiphlogistic pomade of his own composition, and he gave his address⁠—“Monsieur Homais, near the market, pretty well known.”