“Be calm, Octave, I will tell it in obscure words and in such a way that he will not see anything in it.  It is a scene for a drama that I have in my mind.”

“You will make some grotesque blunder, if you go on drinking and talking,” replied Gerfaut, in an anxious voice.  “Hold your tongue, or else come away from the table with me.”

“When I tell you that I will use obscure words,” replied the artist; “what do you take me for?  I swear to you that I will gloss it over in such a way that nobody will suspect anything.”

“The story! the story!” exclaimed several, who were amused by the incoherent chattering of the artist.

“Here it is,” said the latter, sitting upright in his char, and paying no heed to his friend’s warnings.  “The scene takes place in a little court in Germany—­Eh!” said he, looking at Gerfaut and maliciously winking his eye—­“do you not think that is glossed over?”

“Not in a German court, you said it was to be a French story,” said the public prosecutor, disposed to play the critic toward the orator who had reduced him to silence.

“Well, it is a French story, but the scene is laid in Germany,” he replied, coolly.  “Do you desire to teach me my profession?  Understand that nothing is more elastic than a German court; the story-teller can introduce there whoever he likes; I may bring in the Shah of Persia and the Emperor of China if I care to.  However, if you prefer the court of Italy, it is the same thing to me.”

This conciliating proposal remained without response.  Marillac continued raising his eyes in such a way that nothing but the whites could be seen, and as if he were searching for his words in the ceiling.

“The Princess Borinski was walking slowly in the mysterious alley on the borders of the foaming torrent—­”

“Borinski! she is a Pole, then?” interrupted M. de Camier.

“Oh! go to the devil, old man!  Do not interrupt me,” exclaimed the artist, impatiently.

“That is right.  Silence now.”

“You have the floor,” said several voices at once.

“—­She was pale, and she heaved convulsive sighs and wrung her soft, warm hands, and a white pearl rolled from her dark lashes, and—­”

“Why do you begin all your phrases with ‘and?’” asked the public prosecutor, with the captiousness of an inexorable critic.

“Because it is biblical and unaffected.  Now let me alone,” replied Marillac, with superb disdain.  “You are a police-officer; I am an artist; what is there in common between you and me?  I will continue:  And he saw this pensive, weeping woman pass in the distance, and he said to the Prince:  ’Borinski, a bit of root in which my foot caught has hurt my limb, will you suffer me to return to the palace?  And the Prince Borinski said to him, ‘Shall my men carry you in a palanquin?’ and the cunning Octave replied—­”

“Your story has not even common-sense and you are a terrible bore,” interrupted Gerfaut brusquely.  “Gentlemen, are we going to sit at the table all night?”