Reffort was a personage who had not said four words during the dinner, but had contented himself with laughing idiotically at what the others said. He was the possessor of a more than insignificant face, and turned as red as fire when he was addressed. He rolled his eyes over the dessert, played with his knife, and murmured at last:
"Faith! messieurs, it embarrasses me to speak, because—I must admit that—on my word of honor, it has never happened to me."
"What's that, Reffort? It has never happened to you! What in the devil do you mean by that? Explain yourself."
"Can it be that Monsieur Reffort is as a man what Jeanne d'Arc was as a woman?" cried Rouffignard. "In that case, I demand that he be cast in a mould, that a statuette be made of him and sold for the benefit of the Société de Tempérance."
Roars of laughter arose on all sides. Monsieur Reffort laughed with the rest, albeit with a somewhat annoyed air, and rejoined:
"You go too far, messieurs; I didn't mean what you think, but simply that I am not a man for love intrigues. I shouldn't know how to go about it; and, faith! when my thoughts turn to love, there are priestesses of Venus, and——"
"Very good, Monsieur Reffort; we don't ask for anything more; we'll call that bonnes fortunes for cash. Next."
"Messieurs," said the gentleman who came next, in a sentimental tone, "the best day of my life was that on which I stole a garter at a wedding party, at Prés-Saint-Gervais—I made a mistake as to the leg; but I saw such a pretty one, and took it for the bride's. In fact, I didn't want to go out from under the table. Unluckily, that charming limb belonged to a lady of fifty; but she was kind enough to make me a present of her garter."
"And you have worn it on your heart ever since?"
"No; but I have kept it under glass. That's my only bonne fortune!"