“Yes, at every tavern; and that’s why we stop so often with our return horses to drink a drop or fill a pipe.”
“Confound it!” said Antoine, with an indescribable twist of the shoulders. “A fellow must have his fun.”
“Well, taste the wine, my lad. I’ll warrant it won’t make you weep.” And filling a glass, Montbar signed to the postilion to fill the other.
“A fine honor for me! To your health and that of your company!”
This was an habitual phrase of the worthy postilion, a sort of extension of politeness which did not need the presence of others to justify it in his eyes.
“Ha!” said he, after drinking and smacking his lips, “there’s vintage for you—and I have gulped it down at a swallow as if it were heel-taps!”
“That was a mistake, Antoine.”
“Yes, it was a mistake.”
“Luckily,” said Montbar, refilling his glass, “you can repair it.”
“No higher than my thumb, citizen,” said the facetious postilion, taking care that his thumb touched the rim of the glass.