“M. le Comte!” cried a voice from the opposite row: “I could tell thee a better tale than that.”
Before the speaker could follow up his words, the President hammered at my wall.
“I beseech thee do not answer the fellow,” he said. “It is a rogue that was suborned in the most pitiful case of the St Amaranthe.”
“Monsieur, monsieur!” exclaimed the accused; “it is a slander and a lie. And how wouldst thou pick thy words with thy shoulder bubbling and hissing under the branding-iron?”
“As I would pick nettles,” I said.
“I beseech thee!” cried again my neighbour the President, in a warning voice, “this man can boast no claim to thy attention.”
The poor rascal cried out: “It is inhuman! I perish for a word of sympathy!”
I would have given it him; but his protests were laughed into silence. He yelled in furious retort. His rage was over-crowed, and drifted into sullenness.
“I dreamt I belaboured a drum,” said the President, “and it burst under my hands.”
* * * * * * *