“Oh! if you did I would have four or six, but if I drink alone, two will do for me.” “Indeed; two bottles are reasonable, and if you eat no meat with it, your confessor will have nothing to reproach you with.” “Oh, of course not; meat on a Friday in Lent!” And going to the larder, he drew out a fine capon. “What are you doing, brother?” said Gorenflot, following his movements with interest. “You see I am taking this carp.” “Carp!” cried Gorenflot. “Yes, a carp,” said Chicot, showing him the tempting bird. “And since when has a carp had a beak?” “A beak! do you see a beak? I only see a nose.” “And wings?” “Fins!” “Feathers?” “Scales, my dear Gorenflot, you are drunk.” “Drunk! I, who have only eaten spinach and drunk water?” “Well, your spinach has overloaded your stomach, and your water has mounted to your head.” “Parbleu! here is our host, he shall decide.” “So be it, but first let him uncork the wine.” M. Boutromet uncorked a bottle and gave a glass to Chicot. Chicot swallowed and smacked his lips. “Ah!” said he, “I have a bad memory, I cannot remember if it be better or worse than that at Montmartre. Here, my brother, enlighten me,” said he, giving a little to the monk, who was looking on with eager eyes. Gorenflot took the glass, and drank slowly the liquor it contained. “It is the same wine,” said he, “but I had too little to tell whether it be better or worse.” “But I want to know, and if you had not a sermon to preach, I would beg you to drink a little more.” “If it will give you pleasure, my brother.” Chicot half filled the monk’s glass. Gorenflot drank it with great gravity. “I pronounce it better,” said he. “You flatter our host.” “A good drinker ought, at the first draught, to recognize the wine, at the second, the quality, and, at the third, the age.” “Oh! I should like to know the age of this wine.” “Give me a few drops more, and I will tell you.” Chicot filled his glass. He drank it off, and then said, “1561.” “Right,” cried Claude Boutromet, “it was 1561.” “Brother Gorenflot,” cried Chicot, “they have beatified men at Rome who were worth less than you.” “A little habit,” said Gorenflot, modestly. “And talent; for I flatter myself I have the habit, and I could not do it. But what are you about?” “Going to my assembly.” “Without eating a piece of my carp?” “Ah I true; you know still less of eating than drinking. M. Boutromet, what is the name of this animal?” The innkeeper looked astonished. “A capon,” said he. “A capon!” cried Chicot, with an air of consternation. “Yes, and a fine one.” “Well!” said Gorenflot, triumphantly. “Well I it seems I was wrong, but as I wish to eat this capon, and yet not sin, be so kind, brother, as to throw a few drops of water upon it, and christen it a carp.” “Ah! ah!” “Yes, I pray you, save me from mortal sin.” “So be it,” cried Gorenflot, “but there is no water.”