“With pleasure,” replied M. d’Anquetil. “But, abbé, know that a gentleman does not mark points he has not made, and does not cheat at cards except at the king’s card-table, round which all sorts of people are assembled, to whom one owes nothing. On any other table it is a vile action. Abbé, say, do you want to be looked on as an adventurer?” “It is remarkable,” said my good tutor, “that you blame at cards or dice a practice so much commended in the art of war, politics and trade; in each of these people glorify themselves by correcting the injuries of fortune. It is not that I do not pique myself on honesty when playing at cards. Thank God, I always play straight, and you must have been dreaming, sir, when you fancied I had marked points I did not make. Had it been otherwise, I would appeal to the example given by the blessed Bishop of Geneva, who did not scruple to cheat at cards. But I cannot defend myself against the reflection that at play men are much more sensitive than in serious business, and that they employ the whole of their probity at the backgammon board, where it incommodes them but indifferently, whereas they put it entirely in the background in a battle or a treaty of peace, where it would be troublesome. Polyænus, sir, has written, in the Greek language a book on Stratagems, wherein is shown to what excess deceit is pushed by the great leaders.” “Abbé,” said M. d’Anquetil, “I have not read your Polyænus, and do not think I ever shall read him. But like every true gentleman, I have been to the wars. I have served the king for eighteen months. It is the noblest of all professions. I’ll tell you exactly what war is. I may tell the secret of it, as nobody is present to listen but yourself, some bottles, yonder gentleman whom I intend to kill very shortly, and that girl, who begins to undress herself.” “Yes,” said Catherine, “I undress, and will keep only my chemise on, because I feel too hot.” “Well then,” M. d’Anquetil continued, “whatever may be printed of it in the gazettes, war consists, above all things, of stealing the pigs and chickens of peasants. Soldiers in the fields have no other occupation.” “You are right,” said M. Coignard, “and in days of yore it was the saying in Gaul that the soldier’s best friend was Madame Marauding. But I beg of you not to kill my pupil, Jacques Tournebroche.” “Ouf!” exclaimed Catherine, arranging the lace of her chemise on her bosom. “Now I feel easier.” “Abbé,” replied M. d’Anquetil, “honour compels me to do it.” But my kind-hearted tutor went on: “Sir, Jacques Tournebroche is very useful to me for the translation, I have undertaken, of Zosimus the Panopolitan. I would give you many thanks not to fight him before the finishing touch has been given to that grand work.” “To the deuce with your Zosimus,” said M. d’Anquetil. “To the deuce with him! Do you hear, abbé! I’ll send him to the deuce, as a king would do with his first mistress.” And he sang: