"Pauvre gaffier!" murmured the priest.
"Often M. Morrie and Rosédès came to see him, but he made no response, although I was certain he was there," continued Buttrebeurrousse. "And he became more and more like that; his face resembled a window with the shutters inside, like an automme sans printemps, a Gauloise sans absinthe. Meanwhile, in order to live, he sold all his herbe à pipe..."
"Grand Érou!"
"He became ill, and the doctor ordered him to abstain from mushrooms. He now had all the excuse he needed, and all supplications on the part of M. Morrie and Rosédès were vain... His last words to them were, 'If you see my son again, tell him he was but a ninnihammier to take to sea, for it is boats that have brought us to this pass.'"
The abbé sighed.
"This tale concerns you much," observed the innkeeper.
"Yes, it is attendrissant," replied the abbé. "Now tell me," he continued menacingly, "tell me who made the son die of despair, and the father of hunger!"
