He saw, at last, that he was stating something not altogether accurate.

But the other took his meaning there and then, lay back in his chair, and burst out laughing.
The blood hummed through Garnache's head as he tightened his lips and watched this gentleman indulge his inexplicable mirth.

Surely Monsieur de Condillac was possessed of the keenest sense of humour in all France.
He laughed with a will, and Garnache sent up a devout prayer that the laugh might choke him.

The noise of it filled the hostelry.
"Sir," said Garnache, with an ever-increasing tartness, "there is a by-word has it 'Much laughter, little wit.' In confidence won, is that your case, monsieur ?" The other looked at him soberly a moment, then went off again.
"Monsieur, monsieur!" he gasped, "you'll be the death of me.

For the love of Heaven look less fierce.