"We had at least half a minute more to stay," he said. "Tobie left too soon." "Quarter to one!" cried the stout youth, with a glance at the clock. "Mon Dieu! Madame Pluchonneau, my concierge, is very hard of hearing." Balivan seized Tobie's arm as he was edging toward the door while making a pretence of examining the pictures, and led him back to the punch table. "Come and have a drink," he said. "But I've drunk a great deal already." "All the more reason. Will you smoke?" "Yes, with pleasure, if you'll get me one of your foreign pipes." "They're right here; I don't need to leave the studio; wait a moment, and I'll fill one for you." Tobie, who had hoped that the painter would leave him, and had proposed to seize the opportunity to steal away unperceived, was obliged to remain; and he wandered about the studio with a very preoccupied air. "There, smoke that, and tell me what you think of it," said the painter, offering the young man a narghile of enormous length. "That was Ali Pacha's pipe." "The devil! suppose my smoking it should make me a savage beast like him! Never mind, I'll take the risk. But how am I to light it? it isn't at all easy, the bowl's so far away." "You put a candle on the floor, and then hold the pipe to it." "All right." Tobie took one of the candles from the card table, and put it on the floor. "I beg pardon, messieurs," he said; "but I want it to light Ali Pacha's pipe." He had no sooner put the bowl of the pipe, the stem of which he held in his mouth, to the flame of the candle, than there was a loud report, like a pistol-shot, the pipe bowl burst, the candle was tipped over, a dense smoke filled the studio, fragments of pipe flew in all directions, and Tobie narrowly missed swallowing a piece of the stem, which stuck in his throat an instant after the report. He fell backward to the floor. Everybody was dismayed for a moment, but, after the first fright, roars of laughter arose on all sides, except from the direction of Tobie, who was still gagged, as it were, by the fragment of pipe stem. "What infernal kind of tobacco is that?" cried Mouillot. "Balivan must have had a fit of abstraction," said Albert. The artist put his hand to his head, and looked in the drawer from which he had taken what he supposed to be tobacco. "Great God!" he exclaimed. "I see what the trouble is. My infernal pupils insisted on making cartridges this morning for a rifle I wanted to try; one of those that load at the breech. I didn't notice that I was taking powder instead of tobacco. Poor Tobie! I am terribly distressed. Well, well! what in the devil's the matter with him?" Tobie could not speak, but he pointed to his mouth, which was wide open, and made up a pitiful face. They went hastily to his assistance, and with a small pair of pincers removed the piece of stem which had stuck between his tongue and his windpipe, like the sound-post of a violin.