André Marcueil drew himself up, shaking the table and spilling the pewter mugs. Animated by a sudden burst of anger, he leaned his face close to the general’s, and his pince-nez quivered as if it were about to be flung in the face of the general by the force of the looks Marcueil was giving him.

The general was flabbergasted, and even more so when he heard Marcueil hiss this baroque threat:

“General, I thought you had some. . . French gallantry in you! I ought to break you in two, but it’s not worth it, you aren’t strong enough!”

“Order, please! Order!” thundered Mark Antony’s voice at the same time, drowning André Marcueil’s.

The general imagined that he must have misheard; first because he saw no reason for Marcueil’s anger, and secondly because he saw him spill the mugs. In order not to have to think too hard, he took it to mean: “This stout isn’t strong enough.”

“Barman!” he called.

And, to Marcueil:

“What will you have?”

But Marcueil paid, grasped the general by the arm, and hurried him off, first out of the bar, and then – signaling to his coupe to wait for them in the same place – in the direction of the Bois de Boulogne.

“But this isn’t my way home,” protested the general. “I live over by Saint-Sulpice!”

He thought: He must be drunk, though we’ve neither of us had very much. “Hey, old fellow – my young friend, I mean – we’re going the wrong way. If you don’t feel well – I can understand that, I was young myself, once – would you like me to take you back to your carriage?”

“You aren’t strong enough,” answered André Marcueil calmly.

“Huh? That’s a good one,” replied the other, shaking Marcueil’s arm.

Marcueil stepped back.

“Where did he go?” The general looked around. “Talks about Hercules and gets floored by an old man’s handshake. But where are you, my young friend? Is the night so dark, or have you turned into a Negro?”

He hummed:

A Negro strong as Hercules

A soldier once attacked. . .

“We’re there,” said Marcueil.

“Where?” wondered Sider. “Your house? My house?”

A white form rose up near them, like the milky globe of a night light. Two notes, like those of a cello, hooted. Further on, claws scuttled and a long, yapping sound was heard.

“Jackals?”

Then suddenly, and with the great facility pure souls possess for never being astonished, the general burst out laughing:

“When and how did we get in? It’s closed at night! Now I see! You should have told me, my young friend, that you have an apartment in the zoo, unless it belongs to your mistress! It wouldn’t surprise me, you’re so eccentric! I ought to have guessed.”