Butscha poured forth the scandalous gossip of Havre, the private
history of fortune and boudoirs, and the crimes committed code in
hand, which are called in Normandy, "getting out of a thing as best
you can." He spared no one; and his liveliness increased with the
torrents of wine which poured down his throat like rain through a
gutter.
"Do you know, La Briere," said Canalis, filling Butscha's glass, "that
this fellow would make a capital secretary to the embassy?"
"And oust his chief!" cried the dwarf flinging a look at Canalis whose
insolence was lost in the gurgling of carbonic acid gas. "I've little
enough gratitude and quite enough scheming to get astride of your
shoulders. Ha, ha, a poet carrying a hunchback! that's been seen,
often seen--on book-shelves. Come, don't look at me as if I were
swallowing swords. My dear great genius, you're a superior man; you
know that gratitude is the word of fools; they stick it in the
dictionary, but it isn't in the human heart; pledges are worth
nothing, except on a certain mount that is neither Pindus nor
Parnassus. You think I owe a great deal to my master's wife, who
brought me up.
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