"Come, come!" said the gentleman threatened with this sobriquet, "that's too bad, Jacques."
"Jacques! You persist in calling me Jacques, just as you persist in calling Belinda, Campana in die—Bell in day. What a deplorable witticism! I could find a better in a moment. Stay," he added, "I have discovered it already."
"What is it, pray, most sapient Jacques?"
"Listen, most long-eared Sir Asinus."
And the young man read once again;
"Hez, sire asne, car chantez,
Belle bouche rechignez;
Vous aurez du foin assez,
Et de l'avoine a plantez."
"Well," said his friend, "now that you have mangled that French with your wretched pronunciation, please explain how my lovely Belinda—come, don't sigh and scowl because I say 'my,' for you know it's all settled—tell me where in these lines you find her name."
"In the second," sighed Jacques.
"Oh yes!—bah!"
"There you are sneering. You make a miserable Latin pun, by which you translate Belinda into Campana in die—Bell in day—and when I improve your idea, making it really good, you sneer."