"'Achille,' says I, ''tis a shtrange thing, but there's niver a thought o' cognac in me mind at all. 'Tis red wine, the best, that I'm afther.' "'Red wine!' says he. 'I haven't a litre o' red wine in the cellars.' "'Holy Powers!' says I, 'an' you wid "Marchand de Vins" on yer door.' The shock of it took the breath out o' me entirely. So I sat up on the counter to think. "''Tis a matther,' says I, 'that concerns the Rig'mint, a rig'mint that was niver bate yet.' An' I explained about the Gin'ral an' what the O.C. tould me. An' thin I tuk the notes from me pocket an' put thim on the counther undher his eyes. "'Ach,' says he, ''tisn't money I want from ye, but to hilp a frind.' Then he folded his arms an' his forehead wint up into a puzzle o' wrinkles. "'An' why wouldn't white wine do?' says he. "'Is it offer white wine to a Gin'ral an' him wid a taste for red?' says I. 'It might rouse him terrible. Now, Achille,' says I, 'would there be no way of makin' the white red?'" O'Reilly put a persuasiveness into the last words that revealed Achille to me as an honest merchant confronted with the most subtle of temptations. "O'Reilly," I said, "was that fair?" "Maybe not, but I'd the Gin'ral an' the honour o' the Rig'mint fixed in me mind. 'That's a good joke, very good,' says Achille; but thore was niver a smile on his face. "'I 'd no intintion to make anny joke,' says I. 'Come, Achille, you're a knowin' man. Would there be no way at all?' "Now it happened that he'd lift the door o' the little room open, an' I could see a bit o' a garden through the window. 'What's the shtuff growin' out there,' says I, 'wid the dark red leaves to it, or maybe ye'd call thim purple?' "'That's beet,' says he with a kind of a groan. "'Beet,' says I. 'An' isn't beet a red kind of a thing an' mighty full o' juice?' "'It is that,' says he, wid the eyes of him almost out o' his head. "'Then how would it be,' says I, 'to touch up the white wine wid some o' that same juice?' "'The thought was in me mind, God help me,' says he, an' wid that he sat up on the counther forninst me, an' we shtared into the garden like two men in a play. "'Would it make the wine cloudy?' says I. "'I could filter it so's it'd come as clear as sunshine,' says he. "'An' how would it be for taste?' says I. "Achille put a hand on me arm an' I could feel him shakin' like a man wid the ague. "'Heaven forgive me,' says he, 'but ye might say it was the wine o' the counthry, an' that taste was the mark of it.' 'Tis my belief he was near cryin', for he was an honest man, an' 'twas for me he was lowerin' himself to deceit." "You were a nice pair," I said. "'Twas a beautiful schame," O'Reilly went on. "I was niver concerned in a betther." "Did it come off?" I asked. "To a turn," said O'Reilly. "We was docthorin' that blissed wine for the best part o' the day, an' I tuk back a dozen bottles to camp. The O.C. was hangin' round, as anxious as a dog for his master.