"You seem to be very successful with ladies," said Oswald, merely in order to say something. "Well, can't complain, your excellency," said Mr. Schmenckel, laughing complacently. "Women are like the weather. To-day too hot, and to-morrow too cold; to-day sunshine, and to-morrow rainy weather. Must take everything as it comes from them, just as from the Great One above." "I should think that depended solely upon yourself," said Berger, whose look dwelt imperturbably upon his jovial companion, as if his mind could not comprehend so remarkable a phenomenon. "How so, old fellow? You think I should let them alone, every one of them? Well, old gentleman, that might do very well for you; but of Caspar Schmenckel, of Vienna, you cannot expect such a thing. The deuce! Leave them alone? Why, I had rather be dead and buried!" "That would certainly be the best of all," said Berger. "Look here, old gentleman," replied the director, with an effort to be serious, which sat very oddly upon him. "Don't commit such a sin! I tell you again, life is a mighty good thing, and we must not paint the devil's likeness on the wall. Oh, pshaw! Why do you let your beer grow stale, and make a face like a tanner whose skins have been washed down the stream? Come, drink a glass with Caspar Schmenckel! Well, that's right! Schmenckel is a merry fellow, and likes to be in company with merry fellows. Well, gentlemen, what do you say, shall we have a nice song? Cotterby, you have a voice like a nightingale! Come, fall in! Does your excellency know the song of the midges?" "No; but let us hear it." "Well, here goes; Stolsenberg, Pierrot, fall in!" And Mr. Schmenckel took the pipe from his mouth, leaned back in his chair, and began with a tremendous bass voice, while his three friends sang chorus: "Good morning, fiddler, Why are you so late? Retreating, advancing, The midges are dancing, With the little killekeia With the big cumcum. "Then came the women, With scythe and sickle, To keep the midges From dancing like witches, With the little killekeia, With the big cumcum." "Well, gentlemen, isn't that a fine song?" cried Mr. Schmenckel, after having finished off the remarkable air by pummelling the table with both hands so that the glasses began to dance. "Very fine," said Berger; "do you know any more?" "Hundreds," replied Mr. Schmenckel, "but Mr. Cotterby knows the best. Sing us a solo, Cotterby." The Egyptian smiled complacently, twisted his small, jet-black moustache, and passed his hand through his dark, well-oiled hair, leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes half, and began in quite a pleasant tenor voice: