Dupré made a wry face; it seemed to him that Monsieur Gervais used some very peculiar expressions, and the more he drank, the less reserve he manifested. Honest Gerval excused it, and was much amused by the joviality of the peddler, which did not seem to please the old man so much.
“Why don’t you drink, Jean?” said Gervais, nudging his neighbor; “you’re a sad fellow! And you, my dear and honored father; you make eyes at me that shine like salt cellars! Morbleu! I am the only one of the family that knows how to laugh; eh, monsieur?—Monsieur de Gerval, your health and your family’s and your lunatic’s; and yours, you old fox, who look at us as if we’d come from Arabia Petræa.—Here’s everybody’s health! I am not stingy!”
“Excuse him, monsieur,” the old man said to Dupré, “but when he has drunk a little, he doesn’t know what he says.”
Dupré frowned and made no reply.
“I don’t know what I say!” cried Gervais; “ah! ten thousand dogs! you think that, do you, my dear father? Well! you lie like the blockhead you are! Isn’t that so, Jean? isn’t he a blockhead?”
The old man rose in a rage.
“If it weren’t for the respect that I owe to our host,” he said, “I’d punish you for your insolence; but I take pity on the situation you’re in; come with me, and let us not keep monsieur from retiring any longer.”
“That’s so, that’s so, my dear father; I rather think I have been talking nonsense, and it’s more prudent to go to bed; meanwhile I ask you for your blessing.”
As he said this, Gervais approached the old man, who pushed him away, and bade Monsieur Gerval good-night, apologizing again for his oldest son’s conduct.
Lucas took candles and was about to escort the strangers to the room set apart for them, when they heard a noise in the courtyard. The peddlers expressed surprise and Dupré ran to the window to look out; he saw Adeline, dressed in a simple déshabillé, holding a light in her hand and walking excitedly through the drifts of snow in the courtyard.