“How, monsieur?”
“Never mind. So, freedom of speech is not to your fancy?”
“It is not freedom, but an excuse for silly licence. Those clowns and the grotesque small Boppard—it is to discuss wine, not politics, that they assemble. A full mug is the only challenge they invite, and the larger the measure, the greater that of their courage. But they talk so much into empty pots that their voices sound very big to them.”
“Not Boppard, mademoiselle. He at least hath this justification—that he is a poet.”
“Has monsieur discovered it, then? Monsieur is cleverer than all Méricourt. We must make monsieur the student a crown of vine leaves.”
“Nicette, dost thou think I will suffer a pullet to cackle at me? What, then, if not a poet?”
“But a maker of charades impossible to interpret, by monsieur’s permission.”
“My permission, you jade! Here is the measure of your courage, I think. And have you no fear that I shall make M. de St Denys acquainted with your opinion of his club?”
“None, monsieur.”
The thunder rolled again. The girl, starting and clasping her hands, cried—