“Tell me,” he said to the waiter after seating himself at a table in the café, “what refreshments have you?”
“We have currants, lemons, blackberries, and French ice-cream.”
“Fine! Bring me a bottle of cognac.”
The waiter brought his order, filled his glass, and was about to remove the bottle.
“No, no; leave it here.”
“Aren’t you going to see the show?” asked the waiter with obsequious familiarity. “They are giving La Isla de San Balandrán: it’s very amusing.”
“I’ll see.”
After Quentin had emptied several glasses, he began to feel heartened, and ready for any folly. At a near-by table several men were talking about an actress who took the principal part in a musical comedy that had just been put on. One with a very loud voice was dragging the actress’ name through the mire.
This man was extremely fat; a kind of a sperm whale, with the bulging features of a dropsical patient, a shiny skin, and the voice of a eunuch. He had a microscopic nose that was lost between his two chubby cheeks, which were a pale yellow; his hatchet-shaped whiskers were so black that they seemed painted with ink; his stiff, bluish hair grew low on his forehead, with a peak above the eyebrows. He wore diamonds upon his bosom, rings upon his pudgy fingers, and, to cap his offensiveness, he was smoking a kilometric cigar with a huge band.
The bearing, the voice, the diamonds, the cigar, the waddling, and the laughter of that man set Quentin’s blood afire to such an extent, that rising and striking the table where the whale was talking to his friends, he shouted: