name? Bring us some liquor, Turk!"

"Here it is, sir," said Christophe, holding out the bottle.

Vautrin filled Eugene's glass and Goriot's likewise, then he
deliberately poured out a few drops into his own glass, and sipped it
while his two neighbors drank their wine. All at once he made a grimace.

"Corked!" he cried. "The devil! You can drink the rest of this,
Christophe, and go and find another bottle; take from the right-hand
side, you know. There are sixteen of us; take down eight bottles."

"If you are going to stand treat," said the painter, "I will pay for a
hundred chestnuts."

"Oh! oh!"

"Booououh!"

"Prrr!"

These exclamations came from all parts of the table like squibs from a
set firework.

"Come, now, Mama Vauquer, a couple of bottles of champagne," called
Vautrin.

"_Quien!_ just like you! Why not ask for the whole house at once. A
couple of bottles of champagne; that means twelve francs! I shall never
see the money back again, I know! But if M. Eugene has a mind to pay for
it, I have some currant cordial."

"That currant cordial of hers is as bad as a black draught," muttered
the medical student.

"Shut up, Bianchon," exclaimed Rastignac; "the very mention of black
draught makes me feel----. Yes, champagne, by all means; I will pay for
it," he added.

"Sylvie," called Mme. Vauquer, "bring in some biscuits, and the little
cakes."

"Those little cakes are mouldy graybeards," said Vautrin. "But trot out
the biscuits."

The Bordeaux wine circulated; the dinner table became a livelier scene
than ever, and the fun grew fast and furious. Imitations of the cries
of various animals mingled with the loud laughter; the Museum official
having taken it into his head to mimic a cat-call rather like the
caterwauling of the animal in question, eight voices simultaneously
struck up with the following variations:

"Scissors to grind!"

"Chick-weeds for singing bir-ds!"

"Brandy-snaps, ladies!"

"China to mend!"

"Boat ahoy!"

"Sticks to beat your wives or your clothes!"

"Old clo'!"

"Cherries all ripe!"

But the palm was awarded to Bianchon for the nasal accent with which he
rendered the cry of "Umbrellas to me-end!"

A few seconds later, and there was a head-splitting racket in the
room, a storm of tomfoolery, a sort of cats' concert, with Vautrin
as conductor of the orchestra, the latter keeping an eye the while on
Eugene and Father Goriot. The wine seemed to have gone to their hea