“In the name of Bacchus, Momus, and Comus, trinity of the great saint Pantagruel, I baptize thee, carp,” said Gorenflot.
“Now,” said Chicot, “to the health of the newly baptized; may it be cooked to perfection, and may M. Boutromet add to the excellent qualities which it has received from nature.”
“To his health,” cried Gorenflot, interrupting a hearty laugh to swallow his wine.
“M. Claude, put this carp at once on the spit, cover it with fresh butter, with shalots in it, and put some toast in the frying-pan, and serve it hot.” Gorenflot approved with a motion of his head.
“Now, M. Boutromet, some sardines and a tunny fish, meanwhile; it is Lent, and I wish to make a maigre dinner. And let me have two more bottles of wine.”
The smell of the cookery began to mount to the brain of the monk. Yet he made a last effort to rise.
“Then you leave me, after all?” said Chicot.
“I must,” said Gorenflot, raising his eyes to heaven.
“It is very imprudent of you to go to pronounce a discourse fasting.”
“Why?”