“Is it so bad as that?” said he, “and has he become such a stranger here in these months?”
The other beckoned his old enemy quite eagerly to a seat.
“You have not heard, monsieur? It is improbable, without doubt; yet Méricourt is at the present moment the centre of much reverent attraction.”
“Is it? You shall tell me about it, Little Boppard. Yet you yourself are reprobate, I hear; and you will have your debauch of sugar and water.”
In reply, the poor body whispered, in quite a chap-fallen and deprecating manner—
“I am of nature a thirsty soul, monsieur. I must take my smoke, like the Turk, through bubbles of liquid. What then! this is not my choice; but it is expected of us in these days of spiritual elevation to drink at the Fountain of Life or not at all.”
“There are different interpretations as to the character of the Fountain. Each is a schism to all others, no doubt. Mine, I confess, is not of sweet water.”
Ned spoke, and rapped peremptorily on the table. M. Boppard’s little eyes, glinting with prospicience, took an expression of nervous admiration of this daring alien.
“Ah, monsieur!” he cried in fearful enthusiasm, “do not go too far. This is not the joyous ‘Landlust’ of your former knowledge; the type of extravagant hospitality; the club of excellent fellowship. Things have happened since you were here. Now we drink eau sucrée, or, worse still, the clear water of regeneration itself. Cordials and cordiality are dreams of the past.”
His voice broke on a falling key. A scared look came over his face. The cow-like girl had opened the door and stood on the threshold mutely waiting.