"Oh, don't be anxious ... I am really very hungry."
"Well then, to table! to table!"
"To table!" merrily repeated the Abbé Rémy.
It was a good dinner; Bougainville was a gourmet; he drank no other wine than champagne; the fashion of icing it had just been invented.
All priests, whether they be curés of a small town or hamlet, or officiating priests of a chapel without a congregation, are inclined to be a little greedy; the Abbé Remy, modest though he was, had the sensual side with which nature has endowed the palate of the ecclesiastic. At first he would not drink more than a few drops of wine in his water; then he mixed wine and water in equal parts; then, finally, he decided to drink his wine pure. When Bougainville saw he had arrived at this point, he rose, and announced that it was time for him to present himself before the king, to whom he was going to address the request relative to the poor of Boulogne. In the meantime the two officers were to keep the Abbé Remy company. As Bougainville had said, he was absent an hour. In spite of the efforts of the officers the worthy priest's hopes see-sawed up and down in a way which did credit to his kindliness of heart.
"Well!" he said, when he caught sight of Bougainville, "what about my poor people?"
"It is not three hundred livres that the king has given me for them," said Bougainville, drawing a roll from his pocket, "but fifty louis!"
"What! Fifty louis?" exclaimed the Abbé Rémy, quite overcome by this regal bounty; "twelve hundred livres!"
"Twelve hundred livres."
"Impossible!"