“Pour dresser un jeune courrier Et l’affermir sur l’étrier Il lui fallait une routière Laire lan laire.” “What’s that Zosimus?” “Zosimus, sir, Zosimus of Panopolis, was a learned Greek, who flourished at Alexandria in the third century of the Christian era, and wrote treatises on the spagyric art.” “Do you fancy it matters to me? Why do you translate it? “Battons le fer quand il est chaud Dit-elle, en faisant sonner haut Le nom de sultan première Laire lan laire.” “Sir,” said my dear tutor, “I quite agree with you; there is no practical utility in it, and by it the course of the world will not be changed in the slightest. But making clearer by annotations and comments this treatise, which that Greek compiled for his sister Theosebia--” Catherine interrupted him by singing in a high-pitched voice: “Je veux en dépit des jaloux Qu’on fasse duc mon epoux Lasse de le voir secretairev Laire lan laire.” And my tutor continued: “--I contribute to the treasure of knowledge gathered by erudite men, and bring forward one stone of my own for a monument to true history, which is a better one than the chronicles of war and treaties; for, sir, the nobility of man--” Catherine continued to sing: “Je sais bien qu’on murmurera Que Paris nous chansonnera Mais tant pis pour le sot vulgaire Laire lan laire.” And my dear tutor went on: “--is thought. And concerning that, it is not indifferent to know what idea the Egyptians had formed of the nature of metals and the qualities of the primitive substance.” The Abbé Jerôme Coignard, having come to the end of his discourse, emptied a big glass of wine, while Catherine sang: “Par l’épée ou par le fourreau Devenir due est toujours beau Il n’importe le maniére Laire lan laire.” “Abbé,” said M. d’Anquetil, “you do not drink, and in spite of such abstinence you lose your reason. In Italy, during the War of Succession, I was under the orders of a brigadier who translated Polybius. But he was an idiot. Why translate Zosimus?” “If you want my true reason,” replied the abbé, “because I find some sensuality in it.” “That’s something like!” protested M. d’Anquetil. “But in what can M. Tournebroche, who at this moment is caressing my mistress, assist you?” “With the knowledge of Greek I have given him.” M. d’Anquetil turned round to me and said: “What, sir, you know Greek! You are not then a gentleman?” “No, sir,” I replied, “I am not. My father is the banner-bearer of the Guild of Parisian Cooks.” “Well, under such conditions it is impossible for me to kill you. Kindly accept my excuses. But, abbé, you don’t drink. You imposed upon me. I believed you to be a real good tippler, and wished you to become my chaplain as soon as I could set up my own establishment.” However, M. Coignard did drink all that the bottle contained, and Catherine, inclining to me, whispered in my ear: “Jacques, I feel that I shall never love anyone but you.”