“But I can't go to Paris.”
“Sure.... Look, how do you call yourself?”
“John Andrews.”
“Well, John Andrews, all I can say is that you've let 'em get your goat. Don't give in. Have a good time, in spite of 'em. To hell with 'em.” He brought the bottle down so hard on the table that it broke and the purple wine flowed over the dirty marble and dripped gleaming on the floor.
Some French soldiers who stood in a group round the bar turned round.
“V'la un gars qui gaspille le bon vin,” said a tall red-faced man, with long sloping whiskers.
“Pour vingt sous j'mangerai la bouteille,” cried a little man lurching forward and leaning drunkenly over the table.
“Done,” said Henslowe. “Say, Andrews, he says he'll eat the bottle for a franc.”
He placed a shining silver franc on the table beside the remnants of the broken bottle. The man seized the neck of the bottle in a black, claw-like hand and gave it a preparatory flourish. He was a cadaverous little man, incredibly dirty, with mustaches and beard of a moth-eaten tow-color, and a purple flush on his cheeks. His uniform was clotted with mud. When the others crowded round him and tried to dissuade him, he said: “M'en fous, c'est mon metier,” and rolled his eyes so that the whites flashed in the dim light like the eyes of dead codfish.
“Why, he's really going to do it,” cried Henslowe.