"Parbleu! I believe you. Do you recognize it?"
"No, frankly, I do not. But, perhaps, by trying to—wait a moment."
I did what I could to prolong the conversation, for I was determined not to part with my interlocutor until the orchestra played the first measure of the waltz. Unluckily, I was not well posted on the subject of snuff.
"It's of no use for you to think," continued the man with the snuffbox. "It's a mixture that I make myself. There's robillard in it, and Belgian, and caporal."
"Ah! I thought there was some caporal. I recognized that."
"There's very little of it. When I have mixed them in just the right proportions, I add two or three drops, no more, of eau de mélisse."
"Ah! that's what it is; I said to myself: 'It seems to me that I recognize that taste.'"
"The taste is barely perceptible; but it lessens the strength of the robillard, which makes people sick sometimes."
"Fichtre! robillard is quite capable of it, especially on an empty stomach. I have known people, who—but, after all, it depends on whether you're used to it."
At that moment, I cut such an idiotic figure in my own eyes that I was tempted to laugh in my own face. Luckily, I had to do with a party who seemed to be of about the same calibre.