let me alone," replied
Marillac, with superb disdain. "You are a police-officer; I am an
artist; what is there in common between you and me? I will continue: And
he saw this pensive, weeping woman pass in the distance, and he said to
the Prince: 'Borinski, a bit of root in which my foot caught has hurt
my limb, will you suffer me to return to the palace? And the Prince
Borinski said to him, 'Shall my men carry you in a palanquin?' and the
cunning Octave replied--"

"Your story has not even common-sense and you are a terrible bore,"
interrupted Gerfaut brusquely. "Gentlemen, are we going to sit at the
table all night?"

He arose, but nobody followed his example. Bergenheim, who for the
last few minutes had lent an attentive ear to the artist's story, gazed
alternately at the two friends with an observing eye.

"Let him talk," said the young magistrate, with an ironical smile.
"I like the palanquin in the court of Germany. That is probably what
novelists call local color. O Racine, poor, deserted Racine!"

Marillac was not intimidated this time by Gerfaut's withering glance,
but, with the obstinacy of drunkenness, continued in a more or less
stammering voice:

"I swore that I would gloss it over; you annoy me. I committed an error,
gentlemen, in calling the lover in this story Octave. It is as clear
as day that his name is Boleslas, Boleslas Matalowski. There is no more
connection between him and my friend Octave than there is between my
other friend Bergenheim and the prince Kolinski--Woginski--what the
devil has become of my Prince's name? A good reward to whoever will tell
me his name!"

"It is wrong to take advantage of his condition and make him talk any
more," said Gerfaut. "I beg of you, Marillac, hold your tongue and come
with me," said he, lowering his voice as he leaned toward the headstrong
story-teller and took him by the arm, trying to make him rise. This
attempt only irritated Marillac; he seized hold of the edge of the table
and clung to it with all his might, screaming:

"No! a thousand times no! I will finish my story. President, allow me
to speak. Ah! ha! you wish to prevent me from speaking because you know
that I tell a story better than you, and that I make an impression
upon my audience. You never have been able to catch my chic. Jealous!
Envious! I know you, serpent!"

"I beg of you, if you ever cared for me, listen!" replied Octave, who,
as he bent over his friend, noticed the Baron's at