"No reason whatever, only that I warn you beforehand I shall not understand it: I always _shiver_ when people tell me a French anecdote; I never know when the point has arrived: I always laugh too soon or too late." He says nothing, but looks black. "Go on!" say I, laughing. "We will try, if you like." "_Mon--premier--est--le--premier--de tout_," he says, pronouncing each word very separately and distinctly. "Do you understand _that_?" I nod. "My first is the first of all--yes." "_Mon second n'a pas de second._" "My second has no second--yes." "_Mon tout_"--(turning his long, sleepy eyes sentimentally toward me)--"_je ne saurai vous le dire._" "My whole--I cannot tell it you!--then why on earth did you ask me?" cry I, breaking out into hearty, wholesome laughter. Again he blackens. "Well, have you guessed it?" "Guessed it!" I echo, recovering my gravity. "Not I!--my first is the first of all--my second has no second--my whole, I cannot tell it you!--I do not believe it is a riddle at all! it is a hoax--a take-in, like 'Why does a miller wear a white hat?'" "It is nothing of the kind," he answers, looking thoroughly annoyed. "Must I tell you the answer?" "I shall certainly never arrive at it by my unassisted genius," I reply, yawning. "Ah! there is M. Dom going out riding! Alas! never again shall I see him mount that peacocking steed!" "It is 'Adieu!'" says my companion, blurting it out in a rage, seeing that I _will_ not be interested in or excited by it. "_Adieu!_" repeat I, standing with my mouth wide open, looking perfectly blank. "_How?_" "You do not see?" he says. (His face has grown scarlet.) "Well, you must excuse me for saying that you are rather--" He breaks off and begins again, very fast this time. "My first is the first of all--is not _A_ the first letter in the alphabet? My second has no second--has God (_Dieu_) any second? My whole--I cannot say it to you--_Adieu!_" The contrast between the sentimentality of the words, and the brusque and defiant anger of his tone, is so abrupt, that I am sorry to say, I laugh again: indeed, I retire from the balcony into the saloon inside, throw myself into a chair, and, covering my face with my handkerchief, roar-- "It is very good," say I, in a choked voice; "very--so civil and pretty--but it is not very _funny_, is it?" I receive no answer. I am still in my pocket-handkerchief, and he might be gone, but that I hear his quick, angry breathing, and know, by instinct, that he is standing over me, looking like a handsome thunder-cloud. I dare not look up at him, lest another mad cachinnation, such as sometimes overtakes one for the punishment of one's sins in church, should again lay violent hands upon me. "I think I like 'Why was Balaam like a Life-Guardsman?' better, _on the whole_," I say, presently, peeping through my fingers, and speaking with a suspicious tremble in my voice.