He arose, but nobody followed his example.  Bergenheim, who for the last few minutes had lent an attentive ear to the artist’s story, gazed alternately at the two friends with an observing eye.

“Let him talk,” said the young magistrate, with an ironical smile.  “I like the palanquin in the court of Germany.  That is probably what novelists call local color.  O Racine, poor, deserted Racine!”

Marillac was not intimidated this time by Gerfaut’s withering glance, but, with the obstinacy of drunkenness, continued in a more or less stammering voice: 

“I swore that I would gloss it over; you annoy me.  I committed an error, gentlemen, in calling the lover in this story Octave.  It is as clear as day that his name is Boleslas, Boleslas Matalowski.  There is no more connection between him and my friend Octave than there is between my other friend Bergenheim and the prince Kolinski—­Woginski—­what the devil has become of my Prince’s name?  A good reward to whoever will tell me his name!”

“It is wrong to take advantage of his condition and make him talk any more,” said Gerfaut.  “I beg of you, Marillac, hold your tongue and come with me,” said he, lowering his voice as he leaned toward the headstrong story-teller and took him by the arm, trying to make him rise.  This attempt only irritated Marillac; he seized hold of the edge of the table and clung to it with all his might, screaming: 

“No! a thousand times no!  I will finish my story.  President, allow me to speak.  Ah! ha! you wish to prevent me from speaking because you know that I tell a story better than you, and that I make an impression upon my audience.  You never have been able to catch my chic.  Jealous!  Envious!  I know you, serpent!”

“I beg of you, if you ever cared for me, listen!” replied Octave, who, as he bent over his friend, noticed the Baron’s attentive look.

“No, I say no!” shouted the artist again, and he added to this word one of the ugliest-sounding oaths in the French language.  He arose, and pushing Octave aside, leaned upon the table, bursting into a loud laugh.  “Poets all,” said he, “be reassured and rejoice.  You shall have your story, in spite of those envious serpents.  But first give me something to drink, for my throat is like a box of matches.  No wine,” he added, as he saw the notary armed with a bottle.  “This devilish wine has made me thirsty instead of refreshing me; besides, I am going to be as sober as a judge.”

Gerfaut, with the desperation of a man who sees that he is about to be ruined, seized him again by the arm and tried to fascinate him by his steady gaze.  But he obtained no response to this mute and threatening supplication except a stupid smile and these stammering words: 

“Give me something to drink, Boleslas—­Marinski-Graboski—­I believe that Satan has lighted his heating apparatus within my stomach.”

The persons seated near the two friends heard an angry hiss from Gerfaut’s lips.  He suddenly leaned over, and taking, from among several bottles, a little carafe he filled Marillac’s glass to the brim.