Scornful laughter shook his sides, and he struggled to give his good-natured voice a diabolical, biting tone, as he repeated, looking at Phil:
“Ces buveurs de bière!”
Poufaille, excited by the wine, had a look of fury. But when he had finished, his shaggy eyebrows grew peaceful, and a smile spread all at once over his big, good-natured face.
“You’re not angry at me, I hope?” he said to Phil, patting him on the shoulder. “What I said about beer-drinkers does not vex you—hein?”
“It doesn’t touch me,” answered Phil, “for I only drink water!”
“True, so you do, poor fellow!” Poufaille said in a tone of pity. “Good old Phil!”
“Good old Poufaille,” Phil replied, “sing whatever you wish; we sha’n’t quarrel for that!”
Poufaille was reassured, filled up his glass, and emptied it at a draught.
“Look out,” said Phil, “you’ll drink too much.”
“Let me be; I need it,” Poufaille answered; and it was almost with a gesture of despair that he filled his glass again. Those around them, also, were not drinking water. Phil had done things on a large scale. He had ordered champagne—as much champagne as they wished. A full glass was offered to Poufaille, but he refused it.