"One must die sooner or later," moralised Hercule inhumanly.
I shook my master again. He grunted. I shook him more violently. To my relief he opened his eyes, smiled at me and waved a limp salutation.
"The Palace of Dipsomania," he murmured.
"No, Master," said I. "This is the Café Delphine and you live in the Rue des Saladiers."
"It is a nuisance to live anywhere. I was born to be a bird—to roost on trees." I had considerable difficulty in disentangling the words from his thick speech. He shut his eyes—then opened them again.
"How does a drunken owl stay on his twig?"
As I felt no interest in the domestic habits of dissolute owls, I set about getting him home. I took his green hat from the peg and put it on his head, and with Hercule's help drew away the table and set him on his feet.
"A man like that! It goes to my heart," said Madame Boin in a low voice.
I felt unreasonably angry that any one, save myself or perhaps Blanquette, should pity my beloved master. I did not answer, whereby I am afraid I was rude to the good Madame Boin. Paragot lurched forward and would have fallen had not Hercule caught and steadied him.
"Broken ankle," explained Paragot.