“Rhâm-Bâhan!” Uncle Cyprien repeated complacently.... “Rhâm-Bâhan!... Of course ... tha what it is.... I thought to myself....”
The admissions made by Schleifmann had whetted his appetite and, his mouth full of food, he insinuated:
“It seems to me you spoke a little while ago of a list of guests who would be there....”
“Yes, yes,” Schleifmann said evasively.
“Well, who are they?” Cyprien insisted.
The Galician shifted uneasily.
“I have not a very clear recollection of them.... I assure you.... I have forgotten.”
“I do believe it, Schleifmann! Try to remember; there is no hurry.”
The temptation proved too strong for his friend. He could not miss such an occasion to air his rancor; he could not refrain from flaying the whole dubious clique of men who had in the past refused him a hearing. He began to feel that he lacked the strength to resist his inclination. He began, mildly at first, a few points at a time, throwing his venom upon those he hated least.
“Very well,” he said. “Le see!... To-night there will be M. Givonne, an artist who paints fans and dancing tambourines for society balls and sells anything he likes to the Americans.... Hm!... M. Mazuccio, a little Italian sculptor who spends his time telling how the women whose busts he has made are fashioned below the waist....”