“Nonsense!” retorted van Rheijn, “does not every one pray for his daily bread? Does not our friend van Beneden here pray for a good lawsuit—and that is, perhaps, not much less serious a matter than an epidemic. But let me go on.
“ ‘Seeing that my prayers were not heard, I sought refuge in poetry;—perhaps I might say I prayed and wrote verses alternately. I celebrated my well-beloved in alexandrines, in iambics, in pentameters, in hexameters, in odes, in lyrics, in sonnets, in stanzas, in German, in Polish—’ ”
“That must have sounded well!” interrupted Grashuis.
“ ‘—In Polish, in French, nay, even in Latin!’ ”
“In Latin!” exclaimed Grenits, with a shout of laughter, “the fellow must have gone raving mad!”
“Just fancy the poor child receiving an ode from her adorer entitled ‘Solis occasus,’—and ‘Virgini Agathæ pulcherrimæ Bemmelensi dedicatus’—I should like to have seen her little phiz,” cried van Beneden.
“Do stop all that nonsense,” remonstrated van Rheijn, who nevertheless was laughing as heartily as the others, and when silence had been restored, he continued:
“ ‘And Heaven only knows how much paper I might have wasted had not suddenly the news reached me that my adored Agatha was engaged, and was, indeed, on the point of being married. Then I crumpled up all my poetical effusions, and that very evening made a nice little fire of them. They were of some use in that way in keeping off the mosquitoes and other such like vermin. I invited all the officers of the garrison to a jolly good champagne supper; and, after having passed a night in which I rivalled the Seven Sleepers of holy memory—I arose next morning a new man—perfectly cured!—’ ”
“That Pole is a practical fellow,” cried Grashuis. “I say, Charlie, you should take a leaf out of his book!”
“ ‘Thereupon I resumed my insect hunting, and then, for the first time, it dawned upon me that the hemiptera, the diptera, the hymenoptera, the lepidoptera, the coleoptera—’ ”