Croque, who was once more on his feet, rubbed his nose and strove to recover his self-possession, muttering:
“Monsieur, I had no intention—I didn’t mean—however, a name’s a name, and after all, if I’ve offended you—ten thousand sauerkrauts! I am all here; I don’t retreat, at cards or at table.”
“Monsieur le baron, I am persuaded that you do not retreat anywhere; but you have not offended me; call me Tirebouchon if it amuses you, and I will join in the laughter.”
“A thousand kirschwassers! if you’re not satisfied——”
“But I tell you, on the contrary, that I am perfectly satisfied. I am not like Chamoureau, who doesn’t want to be called by his own name.”
“Cha—Cha—Chamou—what’s that you say? De Belleville’s name is Chamou?”
“Formerly—before my marriage,” stammered Chamoureau, “I may have had another name, but the moment I dropped it, I ceased to have it!”
“I say, that’s a good one! My sister didn’t tell me that, the hussy!”
“Who’s your sister?” cried Chamoureau.
Croque saw that he had been imprudent. To make his interlocutors forget it, he began to pretend to be in a quarrelsome mood once more.