“He has invited her to dinner, my dear fellow,” said Favier to his right-hand neighbour, finishing his story. “What! you didn't know it?”
The whole table knew it, they were tired of talking about it since the first thing in the morning. And the same poor jokes passed from mouth to mouth. Deloche had turned pale again. He looked at them, his eyes finishing by resting on Favier, who was persisting in repeating:
“If he's not had her, he's going to. And he won't be the first; oh! no, he won't be the first.”
He was also looking at Deloche. He added with a provoking air: “Those who like bones can have her for a crown!” Suddenly, he ducked his head. Deloche, yielding to an irresistible movement, had just thrown his last glass of wine into his tormentor's face, stammering: “Take that, you infernal liar! I ought to have drenched you yesterday!”
It caused quite a scandal. A few drops had spurted on Favier's neighbours, whilst he only had his hair slightly wetted: the wine, thrown by an awkward hand, had fallen the other side of the table. But the others got angry, asking if she was his mistress that he defended her in this way? What a brute! he deserved a good sound drubbing to teach him manners. However, their voices fell, an inspector was observed coming along, and it was useless to introduce the management into the quarrel. Favier contented himself with saying:
“If it had caught me, you would have seen some sport!” Then the affair wound up in jeers. When Deloche, still trembling, wished to drink to hide his confusion, and seized his empty glass mechanically, they burst out laughing. He laid his glass down again awkwardly, and commenced sucking the leaves of the artichoke he had already eaten.
“Pass Deloche the water bottle,” said Mignot, quietly; “he's thirsty.”