Gorenflot looked at the spinach, and sighed, then at the water, and turned away his head.
“Do you remember,” said Chicot, “the little dinner at the Porte Montmartre, where, while the king was scourging himself and others, we devoured a teal from the marshes of the Grauge-Batelière, with a sauce made with crabs, and we drank that nice Burgundy wine; what do you call it?”
“It is a wine of my country, La Romanée.”
“Yes, yes, it was the milk you sucked as a baby, worthy son of Noah.”
“It was good,” said Gorenflot, “but there is better.”
“So says Claude Boutromet, who pretends that he has in his cellar fifty bottles to which that is paltry.”
“It is true.”
“True, and yet you drink that abominable red water. Fie!” And Chicot, taking the glass, threw the contents out of window.
“There is a time for all, my brother,” said Gorenflot, “and wine is good when one has only to praise God after it, but water is better when one has a discourse to pronounce.”
“Opinions differ, for I, who have also a discourse to pronounce, am going to ask for a bottle of Romanée. What do you advise me to take with it, Gorenflot?”