emptied a big glass of wine, while Catherine sang:

"Par l'epee ou par le fourreau
Devenir due est toujours beau
Il n'importe le maniere
Laire lan laire."

"Abbe," said M. d'Anquetil, "you do not drink, and in spite of such
abstinence you lose your reason. In Italy, during the War of
Succession, I was under the orders of a brigadier who translated
Polybius. But he was an idiot. Why translate Zosimus?"

"If you want my true reason," replied the abbe, "because I find some
sensuality in it."

"That's something like!" protested M. d'Anquetil. "But in what can
M. Tournebroche, who at this moment is caressing my mistress, assist
you?"

"With the knowledge of Greek I have given him."

M. d'Anquetil turned round to me and said:

"What, sir, you know Greek! You are not then a gentleman?"

"No, sir," I replied, "I am not. My father is the banner-bearer of
the Guild of Parisian Cooks."

"Well, under such conditions it is impossible for me to kill you.
Kindly accept my excuses. But, abbe, you don't drink. You imposed