“Oh, Cephyse!” said Jacques, in a tone of reproach.

“Luck to the Cholera,” repeated the Queen, fearlessly.  “Let him spare those who wish to live, and kill together those who dread to part!”

Jacques and Cephyse exchanged a rapid glance, unnoticed by their joyous companions, and for some time the Bacchanal Queen remained silent and thoughtful.

“If you put it that way, it is different,” cried Rose-Pompon, boldly.  “To the Cholera! may none but good fellows be left on earth!”

In spite of this variation, the impression was still painfully impressive.  Dumoulin, wishing to cut short this gloomy subject, exclaimed:  “Devil take the dead, and long live the living!  And, talking of chaps who both live and live well, I ask you to drink a health most dear to our joyous queen, the health of our Amphitryon.  Unfortunately, I do not know his respectable name, having only had the advantage of making his acquaintance this night; he will excuse me, then, if I confine myself to proposing the health of Sleepinbuff—­a name by no means offensive to my modesty, as Adam never slept in any other manner.  I drink to Sleepinbuff.”

“Thanks, old son!” said Jacques, gayly; “were I to forget your name, I should call you ‘Have-a-sip?’ and I am sure that you would answer:  ’I will.’”

“I will directly!” said Dumoulin, making the military salute with one hand, and holding out the bowl with the other.

“As we have drunk together,” resumed Sleepinbuff, cordially, “we ought to know each other thoroughly.  I am Jacques Rennepont?”

“Rennepont!” cried Dumoulin, who appeared struck by the name, in spite of his half-drunkenness; “you are Rennepont?”

“Rennepont in the fullest sense of the word.  Does that astonish you?”

“There is a very ancient family of that name—­the Counts of Rennepont.”

“The deuce there is!” said the other, laughing.

“The Counts of Rennepont are also Dukes of Cardoville,” added Dumoulin.

“Now, come, old fellow! do I look as if I belonged to such a family?—­I, a workman out for a spree?”

“You a workman? why, we are getting into the Arabian Nights!” cried Dumoulin, more and more surprised.  “You give us a Belshazzar’s banquet, with accompaniment of carriages and four, and yet are a workman?  Only tell me your trade, and I will join you, leaving the Vine of the Divine to take care of itself.”

“Come, I say! don’t think that I am a printer of flimsies, and a smasher!” replied Jacques, laughing.

“Oh, comrade! no such suspicion—­”

“It would be excusable, seeing the rigs I run.  But I’ll make you easy on that point.  I am spending an inheritance.”

“Eating and drinking an uncle, no doubt?” said Dumoulin, benevolently.

“Faith, I don’t know.”

“What! you don’t know whom you are eating and drinking?”

“Why, you see, in the first place, my father was a bone-grubber.”