The whole table knew it, they were tired of talking about it since the first thing in the morning. And the same poor jokes passed from mouth to mouth. Deloche had turned pale again. He looked at them, his eyes finishing by resting on Favier, who was persisting in repeating: “If he's not had her, he's going to. And he won't be the first; oh! no, he won't be the first.” He was also looking at Deloche. He added with a provoking air: “Those who like bones can have her for a crown!” Suddenly, he ducked his head. Deloche, yielding to an irresistible movement, had just thrown his last glass of wine into his tormentor's face, stammering: “Take that, you infernal liar! I ought to have drenched you yesterday!” [Illustration: 0406] It caused quite a scandal. A few drops had spurted on Favier's neighbours, whilst he only had his hair slightly wetted: the wine, thrown by an awkward hand, had fallen the other side of the table. But the others got angry, asking if she was his mistress that he defended her in this way? What a brute! he deserved a good sound drubbing to teach him manners. However, their voices fell, an inspector was observed coming along, and it was useless to introduce the management into the quarrel. Favier contented himself with saying: “If it had caught me, you would have seen some sport!” Then the affair wound up in jeers. When Deloche, still trembling, wished to drink to hide his confusion, and seized his empty glass mechanically, they burst out laughing. He laid his glass down again awkwardly, and commenced sucking the leaves of the artichoke he had already eaten. “Pass Deloche the water bottle,” said Mignot, quietly; “he's thirsty.” The laughter increased. The young men took their clean plates from the piles standing on the table, at equal distances, whilst the waiters handed round the dessert, which consisted of peaches, in baskets. And they all held their sides when Mignot added, with a grin: “Each man to his taste. Deloche takes wine with his peaches.” The latter sat motionless, with his head hanging down, as if deaf to the joking going on around him: he was full of a despairing regret for what he had just done. These fellows were right--what right had he to defend her? They would now think all sorts of villanous things: he could have killed himself for having thus compromised her, in attempting to prove her innocence. This was always his luck, he might just as well kill himself at once, for he could not even yield to the promptings of his heart without doing some stupid thing. And the fears came into his eyes. Was it not always his fault if the whole shop was talking of the letter written by the governor? He heard them grinning and making abominable remarks about this invitation, of which Liénard alone had been informed; and he accused himself, he ought not to have let Pauline speak before the latter; he was really responsible for the annoying indiscretion committed.