"What will you take, Gondon?" Cartier asked. "Dumas is paying." "I will take absinthe; I want to enjoy my dinner well to-day." "Well, so will I," said Cartier. "And you?" "I? You know I have made a vow never to take either liqueur or coffee." To what saint and on what occasion I made this vow I cannot at all say; but I know I kept it religiously. "Then we will say two small absinthes?" replied Cartier, continuing to joke. "That will be six sous, waiter, in exchange for your receipt." In the provinces, at any rate at Villers-Cotterets, a small glass of absinthe costs three sous. "My dear Gondon," I said, "I cannot offer you a better prayer than my uncle's, the curé at Béthisy: 'My God, side neither with one nor with the other, and you will see a rascal receive a jolly good whacking!' Will you have your six points, father Cartier?" "Go along with you!" Cartier exclaimed disdainfully, putting my ball on the yellow. We played Russian fashion, a game with five balls, and thirty-six points. I made the yellow six times--three times into the right pocket and three times into the left. "Six times six; thirty-six; first round. Your two small glasses are not worth more than their three sous, father Cartier." "Four sous, you mean to say." "Not unless I let you win the second round." "Come on, then!" "Will you have the six points?" "I will give them to you, if you like." "Done! Mark my six points, Gondon; I have my designs on father Cartier. I mean him to contribute to my visit to Paris: the diligences start from his hotel." At the second round, Cartier got up to twelve. At thirty points, I had a run and made sixteen more; that made forty-six points, instead of thirty-six. Deducting the six points restored to Cartier, there still remained four I could offer him in return. He refused them with his usual dignity. But Cartier was beside himself when he had lost the first game, and the wilder he was the more obstinate he became: once set going, he would have played away his land, his hotel, his saucepans, to the very chickens that were turning on his spit. Worthy old Cartier! He is alive yet; although he is eighty-six or eighty-seven, he is still remarkably hale, and lives with his two children. I never go to Villers-Cotterets without calling on him. Last time I saw him, about a year ago, I paid him a compliment on his health. "My goodness, my dear Cartier," I said to him, "you are like our oak trees, which, if they do not grow very tall, go deep into the soil and gain in roots what they miss in the way of leaves. You will live to the Last Judgment." "Oh, my boy," he said, "I have been very ill,--did you not know it?" "No--when?" "Three and a half years ago." "What was the matter with you?" "I had toothache." "That was your own fault. What business have you with' teeth at your age?"