Dom Nicolas winked both his big eyes, and seemed to choke upon his Adam’s apple. Montfaucon, the great grisly Paris gibbet, stood hard by the St. Denis Road, and the pleasantry touched him on the raw. As for Tabary, he laughed immoderately over the medlars; he had never heard anything more light-hearted; and he held his sides and crowed. Villon fetched him a fillip on the nose, which turned his mirth into an attack of coughing.
“Oh, stop that row,” said Villon, “and think of rhymes to ‘fish.’“
“Doubles or quits?” said Montigny doggedly.
“With all my heart,” quoth Thevenin.
“Is there any more in that bottle?” asked the monk.
“Open another,” said Villon. “How do you ever hope to fill that big hogshead, your body, with little things like bottles? And how do you expect to get to heaven? How many angels, do you fancy, can be spared to carry up a single monk from Picardy? Or do you think yourself another Elias—and they’ll send the coach for you?”
“Hominibus impossibile,” replied the monk, as he filled his glass.
Tabary was in ecstasies.
Villon filliped his nose again.