He's a pestilent creature, this la Motte," he added, with a hiccough,--"a pestilent creature; but, Sangdieu! his wine is good, and I'll speak to my uncle.

Help me up, De Luynes.

Help me up, I say; I would drink the health of this provider of wines." I hurried forward, but he had struggled up unaided, and stood swaying with one hand on the table and the other on the back of his chair.

In vain did I remonstrate with him that already he had drunk overmuch.
"'T is a lie!" he shouted.

"May not a gentleman sit upon the floor from choice ?" To emphasise his protestation he imprudently withdrew his hand from the chair and struck at the air with his open palm.