“You are an ill-conditioned hog,” said I.
He sprang, toppling, to his feet.
“Mother of God!” he stuttered, hoarsely; “this goes too far, this——”
He caught Crépin’s eye and subsided again, muttering. We were all pretty warm with liquor; but my superior officer was grown benignant under its influence.
“For shame, citizens!” he said, blandly, “to put a coarse accent to this heavenly bouquet.”
He had bettered me in the philosophy of the palate. I confess it at once.
The other (his name, we came to know, was Lacombe—a name of infamous notoriety in the Bordeaux business) leaned over to me presently—when Crépin was gone from the room a moment to give a direction—with hell glinting out of his eyes.
“M. le Représentant’s fellow,” said he; “I bow to authority, but I kick authority’s dog in the ribs if the cur molests me.”
“I don’t doubt it. It is probably the measure of your courage.”
He nodded pregnantly.