“Bless my soul, you ought to stand as model for a burlesque Hercules,” said the young painter.
“I will, upon my word! if Mlle. Michonneau will consent to sit as the Venus of Pere-Lachaise,” replied Vautrin.
“Oh! Poiret shall pose as Poiret. He can be a garden god!” cried Vautrin; “his name means a pear----”
“A sleepy pear!” Bianchon put in. “You will come in between the pear and the cheese.”
“What stuff are you all talking!” said Mme. Vauquer; “you would do better to treat us to your Bordeaux; I see a glimpse of a bottle there. It would keep us all in a good humor, and it is good for the stomach besides.”
“Gentlemen,” said Vautrin, “the Lady President calls us to order. Mme. Couture and Mlle. Victorine will take your jokes in good part, but respect the innocence of the aged Goriot. I propose a glass or two of Bordeauxrama, rendered twice illustrious by the name of Laffite, no political allusions intended.--Come, you Turk!” he added, looking at Christophe, who did not offer to stir. “Christophe! Here! What, you don’t answer to your own name? Bring us some liquor, Turk!”
“Here it is, sir,” said Christophe, holding out the bottle.
Vautrin filled Eugene’s glass and Goriot’s likewise, then he deliberately poured out a few drops into his own glass, and sipped it while his two neighbors drank their wine. All at once he made a grimace.
“Corked!” he cried. “The devil! You can drink the rest of this, Christophe, and go and find another bottle; take from the right-hand side, you know. There are sixteen of us; take down eight bottles.”
“If you are going to stand treat,” said the painter, “I will pay for a hundred chestnuts.”
These exclamations came from all parts of the table like squibs from a set firework.
“Come, now, Mama Vauquer, a couple of bottles of champagne,” called Vautrin.
“_Quien!_ just like you! Why not ask for the whole house at once. A couple of bottles of champagne; that means twelve francs! I shall never see the money back again, I know! But if M. Eugene has a mind to pay for it, I have some currant cordial.”
“That currant cordial of hers is as bad as a black draught,” muttered the medical student.
“Shut up, Bianchon,” exclaimed Rastignac; “the very mention of black draught makes me feel----. Yes, champagne, by all means; I will pay for it,” he added.