"You're an idiot, Bertrand; don't you act as my steward, factotum, confidential man of business,--yes, and as my friend, which is better than all the rest, and for which one cannot pay?" At that, Bertrand turned his head altogether, and blew his nose again, because a great tear had dropped from his eyes. He took two pinches of snuff, and having warmly grasped the hand that his master offered him, he said in a quavering voice: "Yes, monsieur, you are the best of men; you have a thousand good qualities! and no one had better say anything different in my hearing! Morbleu! my sword isn't rusty yet." "Oho! so now you're going to flatter me, are you? Remember, Bertrand, that you began this conversation for the purpose of scolding me." "Scolding you! no, indeed, lieutenant, but simply to point out to you that it would be more reasonable to love one woman at once; with full liberty to change as soon as you see another one that you like better." "Look you, Bertrand, I'll draw a comparison for you, that you'll see the justice of at once." "You won't put any Greeks or Romans in it, will you, lieutenant?" "Not one.--You like wine, don't you, Bertrand?" "That's so, lieutenant; I admit that an old bottle--of a good brand--there's nothing like that to liven you up!" "Do you like beaune?" "Very much, lieutenant." "And bordeaux?" "Ah, yes! it smells of violets; it has a delicious bouquet!" "And volnay?" "I've never been able to resist it." "And chambertin?" "I would go down on my knees to it, lieutenant." "If you had a bottle of each of those wines in front of you, would you give up three of them and drink just a single one?" "I promise you, lieutenant, that I'd take care of all four of them, and I wouldn't be any worse off for it either." "Why then do you expect me, when I am surrounded by four pretty creatures, each of whom has some peculiar charm, to give up three of them and make love to only one?" "Parbleu! that's true enough, lieutenant; you can't do it; you must drink them--I mean you must love them all four; and I see now that I was wrong." The discussions between Bertrand and Auguste Dalville almost always ended so. Auguste was twenty-seven and had twenty thousand francs a year; his father died while he was in the cradle, and his mother was taken away from him six years before our story opens. That was the date of the beginning of Auguste's life of dissipation; he had sought distraction from his perfectly natural grief, and had finally become unable to resist a sex in whose company he had at first sought diversion only.