‘Jacques, I would fain learn something of Descartes,’ she cried.
‘Descartes? Oh, he’s the rarest creature! ’Tis reported he never ceases from sniffling in his nose, and like Allah, he sits clad in a dressing-gown and makes the world.’
Monsieur Troqueville cocked an eye full of intelligent interest and said, in his prim company voice: ‘In good earnest, is that so?’ But Madeleine gave one of Jacques’s ringlets a sharp tweak, and asked indignantly what he meant by ‘dressing-gowns and Allah.’
‘Why, Allah is the Turk’s God,’ then, seeing that Monsieur Troqueville with pursed-up lips was frowning and shaking his head with the air of a judge listening to an over-specious counsel, he added,—
‘Well, uncle, do you lean to a contrary opinion?’
‘All the world is aware that Mohammed is the Turk’s God—Mohammed. But you have ever held opinions eccentric to those of all staid and learned doctors!’
‘Uncle, I would have you know that Allah is the Turk’s God.’
‘Mohammed!’
‘Allah, I say, and as there is good ground for holding that he is ever clad in a Turkish dressing-gown, thus....’
‘They dub their God Mohammed,’ roared Monsieur Troqueville, purple in the face.