Butscha's head rolled between his shoulders, and his eyes turned from
Germain to La Briere, and from La Briere to Canalis, after the manner
of men who, knowing they are tipsy, wish to see what other men are
thinking of them; for in the shipwreck of drunkenness it is noticeable
that self-love is the last thing that goes to the bottom.
"Ha! my great poet, you're a pretty good trickster yourself; but you
are not deep enough. What do you mean by taking me for one of your own
readers,--you who sent your friend to Paris, full gallop, to inquire
into the property of the Mignon family? Ha, ha! I hoax, thou hoaxest,
we hoax--Good! But do me the honor to believe that I'm deep enough to
keep the secrets of my own business. As the head-clerk of a notary, my
heart is a locked box, padlocked! My mouth never opens to let out
anything about a client. I know all, and I know nothing. Besides, my
passion is well known. I love Modeste; she is my pupil, and she must
make a good marriage. I'll fool the duke, if need be; and you shall
marry--"
"Germain, coffee and liqueurs," said Canalis.
"Liqueurs!" repeated Butscha with a wave of his hand, and the air of a
sham virgin repelling seduction; "Ah, those poor deeds! one of 'em was
a marriage contract; and that second clerk of mine is as stupid as--as
--an epithalamium, and he's capable of digging his penknife right
through the bride's paraphernalia; he thinks he's a handsome man
because he's five feet six,--idiot!"
"Here is some creme de the, a liqueur of the West Indies," said
Canalis.
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