“Come,” said Andrea, “what do you want?”
“You do not speak affectionately to me, Benedetto, my old friend, that is not right—take care, or I may become troublesome.”
This menace smothered the young man’s passion. He urged the horse again into a trot.
“You should not speak so to an old friend like me, Caderousse, as you said just now; you are a native of Marseilles, I am—”
“Do you know then now what you are?”
“No, but I was brought up in Corsica; you are old and obstinate, I am young and wilful. Between people like us threats are out of place, everything should be amicably arranged. Is it my fault if fortune, which has frowned on you, has been kind to me?”
“Fortune has been kind to you, then? Your tilbury, your groom, your clothes, are not then hired? Good, so much the better,” said Caderousse, his eyes sparkling with avarice.
“Oh, you knew that well enough before speaking to me,” said Andrea, becoming more and more excited. “If I had been wearing a handkerchief like yours on my head, rags on my back, and worn-out shoes on my feet, you would not have known me.”
“You wrong me, my boy; now I have found you, nothing prevents my being as well-dressed as anyone, knowing, as I do, the goodness of your heart. If you have two coats you will give me one of them. I used to divide my soup and beans with you when you were hungry.”
“True,” said Andrea.
“What an appetite you used to have! Is it as good now?”