"Well, Captain Morhange," Le Mesge called out to my comrade who had
taken a mouthful of fish, "what do you say to this acanthopterygian?
It was caught to-day in the lake in the oasis. Do you begin to admit
the hypothesis of the Saharan sea?"
"The fish is an argument," my companion replied.
Suddenly he became silent. The door had opened. A white Targa entered.
The diners stopped talking.
The veiled man walked slowly toward Morhange and touched his right
arm.
"Very well," said Morhange.
He got up and followed the messenger.
The pitcher of Ahaggar, 1879, stood between me and Count Bielowsky. I
filled my goblet--a goblet which held a pint, and gulped it down.
The Hetman looked at me sympathetically.
"Ha, ha!" laughed Le Mesge, nudging me with his elbow. "Antinea has
respect for the hierarchic order."
The Reverend Spardek smiled modestly.
"Ha, ha!" laughed Le Mesge again.
My glass was empty. For a moment I was tempted to hurl it at the head
of the Fellow in History. But what of it? I filled it and emptied it
again.
"Morhange will miss this delicious roast of mutton," said the
Professor, more and more hilarious, as he awarded himself a thick
slice of meat.
"He won't regret it," said the Hetman crossly. "This is not roast; it
is ram's horn. Really Koukou is beginning to make fun of us."
"Blame it on the Reverend," the shrill voice of Le Mesge cut in. "I
have told him often enough to hunt other proselytes and leave our cook
alone."
"Professor," Spardek began with dignity.
"I maintain my contention," cried Le Mesge, who seemed to me to be
getting a bit overloaded. "I call the gentleman to witness," he went
on, turning to me. "He has just come. He is unbiased. Therefore I ask
him: has one the right to spoil a Bambara cook by addling his head
with theological discussions for which he has no predisposition?"
"Alas!" the pastor replied sadly. "You are mistaken. He has only too
strong a propensity to controversy."
"Koukou is a good-for-nothing who uses Colas' cow as an excuse for
doing nothing and letting our scallops burn," declared the Hetman.
"Long live the Pope!" he cried, filling the glasses all around.
"I assure you that this Bambara worries me," Spardek went on with
great dignity. "Do you know what he has come to? He denies
transubstantiation. He is within an inch of the heresy of Zwingli and
Oecolampades. Koukou denies transubstantiation."
"Sir," said Le Mesge, very much excited, "cooks should be left in
peace. Jesus, whom I consider as good a theologian as you, understood
that, and it never occurred to him to call Martha away from her oven
to talk nonsense to her."
"Exactly so," said the Hetman approvingly.
He was holding a jar between his knees and trying to draw its cork.
"Oh, Côtes Rôties, wines from the Côte-Rôtie!" he murmured to me as he
finally succeeded. "Touch glasses."
"Koukou denies transubstantiation," the pastor continued, sadly
emptying his glass.
"Eh!" said the Hetman of Jitomir in my ear, "let them talk on. Don't
you see that they are quite drunk?"
His own voice was thick. He had the greatest difficulty in the world
in filling my goblet to the brim.