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Fiction has imitated history in un verre d'eau and other compositions. To these examples, real or feigned, I am now about to add one; and the curious reader may, if he thinks it worth while, note the various ramifications at home and abroad of a seemingly trivial incident. They were all seated at luncheon, when a servant came in with a salver, and said, "A gentleman to see you, sir."
Consequently, on the 21st of May 1657, the Criminal-Lieutenant of Saumur delivered sentence, declaring that the soldier of the Gardes was the true Claude de Verré, permitting him to take possession of the property of the deceased Guy de Verré, and condemning Michael Feydy to death. The first part of this sentence was carried out.
She also had recourse to the legal tribunals, and demanded that Madame de Verré and her second son should pay her an annuity of 500 livres, and the arrears which were due to her since her abandonment by her husband, and 1500 livres for expenses incurred by Jacques Verré during his residence with her father and mother in Normandy.
Mind, I don't say this is what is going to be done. It merely occurred to me." After waiting for a moment for some comment, he added a second thought: "You'd have to set about making friends with her, you know. In any case, you'd better begin at that at once." The General remained buried in reflection. He lighted a cigarette, and poured out for himself still another petit verre.
'Nous l'avons en dormant, madame, échappé belle; Un monde près de nous a passé tout du long, Est chu tout au travers de notre tourbillon; Et, s'il eût en chemin rencontré notre terre, Elle eût été brisée en morceaux comme verre. 'A comet coursing along its parabolic orbit may come full tilt against our earth. But then, what will happen?
I should say that the visit to Europe under those circumstances was much the same thing as the petit verre, the little glass of Chartreuse, or Maraschino, or Curacoa, or, if you will, of plain Cognac, at the end of a long banquet. One has gone through many courses, which repose in the safe recesses of his economy.
I remonstrated, but he was firm. "Alors," I told the waiter, "pour Monsieur un verre de l'eau fraiche, et pour moi un demi blonde." Pethel asked me to tell him who every one was. I told him no one was any one in particular, and suggested that we should talk about ourselves. "You mean," he laughed, "that you want to know who the devil I am?" I assured him that I had often heard of him.
"Must have another tumbler of wine before I can grapple with these chaps," said he, eyeing them, and looking into Madame de Genlis's book: "'Garsoon, donnez-moi un verre de vin," holding up the book and pointing to the sentence. He again set to and "went a good one" at both mutton and snipes, but on pulling up he appeared somewhat exhausted. He had not got through it all yet, however.
Smiling, gay and debonnair with all the women servants, he had a pinch of snuff, a cigar of fair quality, or a pipe full of tabac for coachman and groom, supplemented with many a petit verre from his capacious flask.
Most of my readers know very well what a petit verre is, but there may be here and there a virtuous abstainer from alcoholic fluids, living among the bayberries and the sweet ferns, who is not aware that the words, as commonly used, signify a small glass a very small glass of spirit, commonly brandy, taken as a chasse-cafe, or coffee-chaser.
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