Luigi Rivoli strode up, casting to right and left the proud glances of the consciously Great.
"Bonsoir, ma belle," quoth he to Madame. "And how is the Soul of the Soul of Luigi Rivoli?"
The drunken man, sitting between the Bucking Bronco and le Légionnaire 'Erbiggin, moved his head. He lay with the right side of it upon his folded arms and his flushed face toward the bar. His eyes were apparently closed in sottish slumber.
Madame la Cantinière fixed Rivoli with a cold and beady eye. (She "wagged her beard" too much, did she? Oho!)
"And since when have I been the Soul of the Soul of Luigi Rivoli?" she enquired.
"Can you ask it, My Own?" was the reply. "Did not the virgin fortress of my heart capitulate to the trumpet of your voice when first its musical call rang o'er its unsealed walls?"
"Pouf!" replied Madame, bridling.… (What a way he had with him, and what a fine figure of a man he was, but "beards" quotha!) Raising the flap of the zinc-covered bar, Luigi, as usual, passed within and poured himself a bumper of wine. Raising the glass—
"To the brightest eyes and sweetest face that I ever looked upon," he toasted, and drank.
Madame simpered. Her wrath had, to some extent, evaporated.… Not that she would ever dream of marrying him. No! that "beard" would be ever between them. No! No! He had dished himself finally. He had, as it were, hanged himself in that beard as did Absalom in the branches of a tree. The price he should pay for that insult was the value of her Canteen and income. There was balm and satis-
