“So be it, but first let him uncork the wine.”
M. Boutromet uncorked a bottle and gave a glass to Chicot. Chicot swallowed and smacked his lips.
“Ah!” said he, “I have a bad memory, I cannot remember if it be better or worse than that at Montmartre. Here, my brother, enlighten me,” said he, giving a little to the monk, who was looking on with eager eyes.
Gorenflot took the glass, and drank slowly the liquor it contained.
“It is the same wine,” said he, “but I had too little to tell whether it be better or worse.”
“But I want to know, and if you had not a sermon to preach, I would beg you to drink a little more.”
“If it will give you pleasure, my brother.”
Chicot half filled the monk’s glass. Gorenflot drank it with great gravity.
“I pronounce it better,” said he.
“You flatter our host.”