“By Jove! your friend is hilariously drunk,” said the notary to Gerfaut; “while here is Bergenheim, who has not taken very much wine, and yet looks as if he were assisting at a funeral.  I thought he was more substantial than this.”

Marillac’s voice burst out more loudly than ever, and Octave’s reply was not heard.

“It is simply astounding.  They are all as drunk as fools, and yet they pretend that it is I who am drunk.  Very well!  I defy you all; who among you wishes to argue with me?  Will you discuss art, literature, politics, medicine, music, philosophy, archiology, jurisprudence, magnetism—­”

“Jurisprudence!” exclaimed the thick voice of the public prosecutor, who was aroused from his stupor by this magic word; “let us talk jurisprudence.”

“Would you like,” said Marillac, without stopping at this interruption, “that I should improvise a discourse upon the death penalty or upon temperance?  Would you like me to tell you a story?”

“A story, yes, a story!” they all exclaimed in unison.

“Speak out, then; order what story you like; it will cost you nothing,” replied the artist, rubbing his hands with a radiant air.  “Would you like a tale from the Middle Ages? a fairy, an eastern, a comical, or a private story?  I warn you that the latter style is less old-fashioned than the others.”

“Let us have it, then, by all means,” said all the drunken voices.

“Very well.  Now would you like it to be laid in Spain, Arabia, or France?”

“France!” exclaimed the prosecutor.

“I am French, you are French, he is French.  You shall have a French story.”

Marillac leaned his forehead upon his hands, and his elbows upon the table, as if to gather his scattered ideas.  After a few moments’ reflection, he raised his head and looked first at Gerfaut, then at Bergenheim, with a peculiar smile.

“It would be very original,” said he, in a low voice as if replying to his own thoughts.

“The story!” exclaimed one of the party, more impatient than the rest.

“Here it is,” replied the artist.  “You all know, gentlemen, how difficult it always is to choose a title.  In order not to make you wait, I have chosen one which is already well known.  My story is to be called ’The husband, the wife, and the lover.’  We are not all single men here, and a wise proverb says that one must never speak—­”

In spite of his muddled brain, the artist did not finish his quotation.  A remnant of common-sense made him realize that he was treading upon dangerous ground and was upon the point of committing an unpardonable indiscretion.  Fortunately, the Baron had paid no attention to his words; but Gerfaut was frightened at his friend’s jabbering, and threw him a glance of the most threatening advice to be prudent.  Marillac vaguely understood his mistake, and was half intimidated by this glance; he leaned before the notary and said to him, in a voice which he tried to make confidential, but which could be heard from one end of the table to the other: