“Yes, you are Françoise! My sister!” he exclaimed. And suddenly sobs⁠—the sobs of a strong man, sounding like the hiccups of a drunkard⁠—rose in his throat. He let go of her head, and striking the table so that the glasses upset and broke to atoms, he cried out in a wild voice.

His comrades, astonished, turned towards him.

“See how he’s swaggering,” said one.

“Stop that shouting,” said another.

“Eh, Duclos! What are you bawling about? Let’s get upstairs again,” said a third, plucking Celestin by the sleeve with one hand while his other arm encircled a flushed, laughing, black-eyed lass, in a rose-coloured, low cut, silk dress.