“Accordingly, if the Revolution were to come back, you would, if necessary, have my head cut off!”
“Who knows?” Schleifmann replied, with a half sarcastic smile. “If you had become too rich!”
Although he relished a jest of this nature very little, M. Raindal affected to be amused.
“All right, Schleifmann! In advance of getting my head chopped off, you already seem to be pulling my leg, old man. I have told you, and I repeat it, the Marquis no longer harbors any appreciable intolerance. Going, going, going! Do you refuse to lunch with him?”
“Well, I am willing,” the Galician replied contemptuously. “But later, say in a year, I shall be more precise and name the day; it shall be on the day that follows the smash up of the mines.... Yes, on that day, I shall be delighted to converse with your friend the Marquis about the Jews and tolerance.”
Cyprien shrugged his shoulders. “One cannot be serious for a minute with you.... Oh, well! Le drop it. You refuse to join us; we can eat without you!”
Schleifmann did not reply, but busied himself with stuffing the head of his mermaid.
“What about your brother?” he asked suddenly. “What does your brother think of all this?”
“My brother? Do talk to me about him! He bores me perhaps even more than you do, my dear man! I do know what is the matter with him this last fortnight.... But I should not be so very much surprised if someone were to tell me that the departure of Mme. Rhâm-Bâhan is at the bottom of it.... You should see his temper!... and his face! In short, he is not to be spoken to.”
Cyprien added confidentially: “And not a word, please, about this mining business, in case you happen to meet him! There would be everlasting sermons and warnings!”