his feet, but the big American's arm flung round him pressed him down, as he lurched his huge body drunkenly against him, pinning him to the table.
"’Ere," expostulated 'Erb. "’E wants ter be sick, I tell yer. Free country ain't it, if 'e is a bloomin' Legendary.… Might as well be a bleed'n drummerdary if 'e carn't be sick w'en 'e wants to.… 'Ope 'e ain't got seven stummicks, eny'ow," he added as an afterthought, and again applied himself to the business of the evening.
John Bull turned, without a word, and left the Canteen. The knot about the bar broke up and Luigi was alone with Madame save for two drunken men and one who was doing his best to achieve that blissful state.
"Have you forgiven me, Beloved of my Soul?" asked Rivoli of Madame, as she mopped the zinc surface of the bar.
"No," snapped Madame. "I have not."
"Then do it now, my Queen," he implored. "Forgive me, and then do one other thing."
"What is that?" enquired Madame.
"Marry me," replied Rivoli, seizing Madame's pudgy fist.
The eyes of the drunken man were on him, and the American watching, thought of the eyes of the snake that lies with broken back watching its slayer. There was death and the hate of Hell in them, and while he shuddered, his heart sang with hope.
"Marry me, Véronique," he repeated. "Have pity on me and end this suspense. See you, I grow thin," and he raised his mighty arms in a pathetic gesture.
Madame glanced at the poor man's stomach. There was no noticeable maigreur.
