Anatole stood up, and went over to the window. The melancholy flow of water from the drooping eaves could be heard, and the sky was as black as the river and the landscape. No light in the heavens, no light below nearer than Beaufort, no sound but the splash of rain. The susceptible fellow shivered visibly, and went back to the table to comfort himself with another draught of Burgundy.
‘There is not a star to be shot into,’ he said gloomily; ‘and it is raining as if the whole universe were melted.’
‘We have a couple more toasts to drink, gentlemen,’ said the Doctor, standing. ‘Are your glasses filled?’
Well, if they could do nothing else, they could at least get drunk before they went on a voyage among the stars, or fell asleep like dogs for eternity.
‘An Englishman, when he is tired of life, takes to drink; a Frenchman blows his brains out,’ Julien observed, as he helped his neighbour to the bottle.
‘Upon my conscience, I do not know that the Englishman has not the best of it.’
‘He is of hardier build, my friend, and can take his drinking and pessimism in equal doses. We are the slaves of our nerves, and can stand neither pessimism nor drink.’
‘Are you ready? The toast is the downfall of France.’
The young men stolidly laid down their untasted wine, and looked at the Doctor for explanation. They themselves might go to the dogs, and the mischief take them there, or elsewhere. The universe might melt away into nothingness, but France, beloved France, must ever stand fast, proud and honoured and beautiful. Drink to her downfall? Was Doctor Vermont mad?
‘Why not?’ said Doctor Vermont imperturbably. ‘We shall be no more. And what can it matter to us? France has had her day, as Egypt, Greece, and Rome had theirs. I would have her spared the misery of a slow decline. It is now the turn of Russia, which will be the civilisation of the future. If you prefer it, we will drink then to Russia.’