“Oh, my! how I adore your Bossuet!” said Rose-Pompon.

“As for my particular meditation, it concerns the question, whether the wine at the marriage of Cana was red or white.  Sometimes I incline to one side, sometimes to the other—­and sometimes to both at once.”

“That is going to the bottom of the question,” said Sleepinbuff.

“And, above all, to the bottom of the bottles,” added the Bacchanal Queen.

“As your majesty is pleased to observe; and already, by dint of reflection and research, I have made a great discovery—­namely, that, if the wine at the marriage of Cana was red—­”

“It couldn’t ‘a’ been white,” said Rose-Pompon, judiciously.

“And if I had arrived at the conviction that it was neither white nor red?” asked Dumoulin, with a magisterial air.

“That could only be when you had drunk till all was blue,” observed Sleepinbuff.

“The partner of the Queen says well.  One may be too athirst for science; but never mind!  From all my studies on this question, to which I have devoted my life—­I shall await the end of my respectable career with the sense of having emptied tuns with a historical—­theological—­and archeological tone!”

It is impossible to describe the jovial grimace and tone with which Dumoulin pronounced and accentuated these last words, which provoked a general laugh.

“Archieolopically?” said Rose-Pompon.  “What sawnee is that?  Has he a tail? does he live in the water?”

“Never mind,” observed the Bacchanal Queen; “these are words of wise men and conjurers; they are like horsehair bustles—­they serve for filling out—­that’s all.  I like better to drink; so fill the glasses, Ninny Moulin; some champagne, Rose-Pompon; here’s to the health of your Philemon and his speedy return!”

“And to the success of his plant upon his stupid and stingy family!” added Rose-Pompon.

The toast was received with unanimous applause.

“With the permission of her majesty and her court,” said Dumoulin, “I propose a toast to the success of a project which greatly interests me, and has some resemblance to Philemon’s jockeying.  I fancy that the toast will bring me luck.”

“Let’s have it, by all means!”

“Well, then—­success to my marriage!” said Dumoulin, rising.

These words provoked an explosion of shouts, applause, and laughter.  Ninny Moulin shouted, applauded, laughed even louder than the rest, opening wide his enormous mouth, and adding to the stunning noise the harsh springing of his rattle, which he had taken up from under his chair.

When the storm had somewhat subsided, the Bacchanal Queen rose and said:  “I drink to the health of the future Madame Ninny Moulin.”

“Oh, Queen! your courtesy touches me so sensibly that I must allow you to read in the depths of my heart the name of my future spouse,” exclaimed Dumoulin.  “She is called Madame Honoree-Modeste-Messaline-Angele de la Sainte-Colombe, widow.”