I studied his grave face, and could not for the life of me make out whether he were lying. M. Étienne said merely:
"Come, Félix."
"You'll drink a glass before you go?" Peyrot cried hospitably, running to fill a goblet muddy with his last pouring. But M. Étienne drew back.
"Well, I don't blame you. I wouldn't drink it myself if I were a count," Peyrot said, setting the draught to his own lips. "After this noon I shall drink it no more all summer. I shall live like a king.
Kiss me, Folly; hug me, Mirth:
Life without you's nothing worth!
Monsieur, can I lend you a hat?"
I had already opened the door and was holding it for my master to pass, when Peyrot picked up from the floor and held out to him a battered and dirty toque, with its draggled feather hanging forlornly over the side. Chafed as he was, M. Étienne could not deny a laugh to the rascal's impudence.
"I cannot rob monsieur," he said.
"M. le Comte need have no scruple. I shall buy me better out of his fifty pistoles."
But M. Étienne was out in the passage, I following, banging the door after me. We went down the stair in time to Peyrot's lusty carolling: