ied! Gustave seemed to him a
genuine idiot, Arthur Papillon a pedant, and as to Jocquelet, he was as
unbearable as a large fly buzzing between the glass and the curtain of a
nervous man's room. Fortunately, Maurice made a little diversion by
bursting into a laugh.

"Well, my friends, you are all simpletons," he exclaimed. "I am not like
you, thank fortune! I do not sputter over my soup. Long life to women!
Yes, all of them, pretty and otherwise! For, upon my word, there are no
ugly ones. I do not notice that Miss Keepsake has feet like the English,
and I forget the barmaid's ruddy complexion, if she is attractive
otherwise. Now do not talk in this stupid fashion, but do as I do; nibble
all the apples while you have teeth. Do you know the reason why, at the
moment that I am talking to the lady of the house, I notice the nose of
the pretty waitress who brings in a letter on a salver? Do you know the
reason why, just as I am leaving Cydalize's house, who has put a rose in
my buttonhole, that I turn my head at the passing of Margoton, who is
returning from the market with a basket upon her arm? It is because it is
one other of my children. One other! that is a great word! Yes, one
thousand and three. Don Juan was right. I feel his blood coursing in my
veins. And now the boy shall uncork some champagne, shall he not? to
drink to the health of love!"

Maurice was cynical, but this exposition of his philosophy served a good
purpose all the same. Everybody applauded him. The prestidigitateur, who
moved about the table like a schoolboy in a monkey-house, drew the cork
from a bottle of Roederer--it was astonishing that fireworks did not dart
out of it--and good-humor was restored. It reigned noisily until the end
of the repast, when the effect was spoiled by that fool of a Gustave. He
insisted upon drinking three glasses of kummel--why had they not poured
in maple sirup?--and, imagining that Jocquelet looked at him askance, he
suddenly manifested the intention of cutting his head open with the
carafe. The comedian, who was very pale, recalled all the scenes of
provocation that he had seen in the theatre; he stiffened in his chair,
swelled out his chest, and stammered, "At your orders!" trying to "play
the situation." But it was useless.

Gustave, restrained by Maurice and Amedee, and as drunk as a Pole,
responded to his friend's objurgations by a torrent of tears, and fell
under the table, breaking some of the dishes.

"Now,