Létorière, too adroit not to divine this, contrived a brilliant triumph for him. The governor, who was truly interested in his guest, wished to resume of his own accord the conversation about the lawsuit. "To the devil with the lawsuit!" cried the Marquis. "That's my look-out . . . If I lose my cause I shall have gained a good companion. I would have twenty lawsuits in order to lose them in that way! But my tankard is empty. . . . Hallo, Selbitz, hallo, you old Satan! . . . The kirchenwasser evaporates before my thirst, as the dew before the sun." "Poor fellow! he tries to shake it off," thought the governor. "I ought not to let him drink alone," and the baron had his mug refilled. "Baron, a song!" cried Létorière, very gayly. "Do you know _The Retreat?_ They say that the air and the words were composed by one of your old huntsmen." "You sing it, Marquis--I will tell you if I know it." And Létorière, having again emptied his mug, and preluded by a deep hem--hem--or two, struck up the following song with the voice of a Stentor: "'Afar the trumpet peals! The stag lies on his haunches! Let the merry hallo sound, 'Tis a stag of ten branch--'" "Come! join the chorus, baron. . . . Heavens! 'tis quite _apropos_ to-day." "With all my heart, Marquis! I don't know the air, but, by Jupiter, it is worthy of Mozart!" and the baron repeated the refrain with a voice so powerful, that it shook the windows. "Listen to the minor strain, baron. . . . It is as melancholy as the last sounds of a distant trumpet in a clear night." And the Marquis continued in a softer voice, and in a slower measure: "'Now the star of evening Peers above the hill; The day hides in the forest, All is still. 'Tis the hour of retreat, Let the dogs be coupled quick; Huntsmen mount and trumpets sound; Forward your brave horses prick! See the brown night And the moonlight; We will go back Home without seeing The huntsman in black.'" The voice of the Marquis seemed to lose its strength as he sang these last words, in a rhythm melancholy and almost sorrowful; his countenance lost its joyous and careless expression, and a shade of sadness passed over his brow, which he soon supported with his hand. Selbitz, who was just at that moment behind his master's chair, said to him, in a low voice, pointing to the Marquis: "When the flower is too plentifully watered it bends on its stalk; when the business on hand is drinking, _to-day_ is not always the son of _yesterday._ Come, come, my lord, you will always be the _widerkom vierge!_ Here's this Frenchman supporting his forehead with his left hand; the intoxication of the forester-general of Hasbreck always begins in that way; but, to do the latter justice, that is always so from the first day." The baron laughed with an air of proud satisfaction, and answered in a low voice: