“Well, my friends, you are all simpletons,” he exclaimed.  “I am not like you, thank fortune!  I do not sputter over my soup.  Long life to women!  Yes, all of them, pretty and otherwise!  For, upon my word, there are no ugly ones.  I do not notice that Miss Keepsake has feet like the English, and I forget the barmaid’s ruddy complexion, if she is attractive otherwise.  Now do not talk in this stupid fashion, but do as I do; nibble all the apples while you have teeth.  Do you know the reason why, at the moment that I am talking to the lady of the house, I notice the nose of the pretty waitress who brings in a letter on a salver?  Do you know the reason why, just as I am leaving Cydalize’s house, who has put a rose in my buttonhole, that I turn my head at the passing of Margoton, who is returning from the market with a basket upon her arm?  It is because it is one other of my children.  One other! that is a great word!  Yes, one thousand and three.  Don Juan was right.  I feel his blood coursing in my veins.  And now the boy shall uncork some champagne, shall he not? to drink to the health of love!”

Maurice was cynical, but this exposition of his philosophy served a good purpose all the same.  Everybody applauded him.  The prestidigitateur, who moved about the table like a schoolboy in a monkey-house, drew the cork from a bottle of Roederer—­it was astonishing that fireworks did not dart out of it—­and good-humor was restored.  It reigned noisily until the end of the repast, when the effect was spoiled by that fool of a Gustave.  He insisted upon drinking three glasses of kummel—­why had they not poured in maple sirup?—­and, imagining that Jocquelet looked at him askance, he suddenly manifested the intention of cutting his head open with the carafe.  The comedian, who was very pale, recalled all the scenes of provocation that he had seen in the theatre; he stiffened in his chair, swelled out his chest, and stammered, “At your orders!” trying to “play the situation.”  But it was useless.

Gustave, restrained by Maurice and Amedee, and as drunk as a Pole, responded to his friend’s objurgations by a torrent of tears, and fell under the table, breaking some of the dishes.

“Now, then, we must take the baby home,” said Maurice, signing to the boy.  In the twinkling of an eye the human rag called Gustave was lifted into a chair, clothed in his topcoat and hat, dressed and spruced up, pushed down the spiral staircase, and landed in a cab.  Then the prestidigitateur returned and performed his last trick by making the plate disappear upon which Maurice had thrown some money to pay the bill.

It was not far from eleven o’clock when the comrades shook hands, in a thick fog, in which the gaslights looked like the orange pedlers’ paper lanterns.  Ugh! how damp it was!

“Good-by.”

“I will see you again soon.”

“Good-night to the ladies.”