"It isn't necessary to furnish objects of excitation to Gourrut."

"André," I said, and I was white, "I demand--"

He stood up to the full height of his stature.

"Well what is it? A gallantry, nothing more. I have authorized you to
speak of Wadi Halfa, haven't I? Then I have the right, I should
think--"

"André!"

Now he was looking maliciously at the wall, at the little portrait the
replica of which I had just subjected to this painful scene.

"There, there, I say, you aren't angry, are you? But between ourselves
you will admit, will you not, that she is a little thin?"

And before I could find time to answer him, he had removed himself,
humming the shameful refrain of the previous night:

"_A la Bastille, a la Bastille,
On aime bien, on aime bien,
Nini, Peau de Chien_."

For three days neither of us spoke to the other. My exasperation was
too deep for words. Was I, then, to be held responsible for his
avatars! Was it my fault if, between two phrases, one seemed always
some allusion--