[Henry, thoughts churning and desire for distraction as yet unsatisfied, pauses for a moment in the shelter of a wall to light a cigarette, with a match taken from a silver match-box. He the match out and casts it aside, only then noticing the young man with the bottle. And wonders what he's about, and decides to find out. He declaims, seemingly to nobody in particular, but clearly meant for the young man's ears:]
De vin, de poésie, ou de vertu, à votre guise. Mais enivrez-vous.
[There is never a bad time for Baudelaire. Even if the quote in question postdates Grantaire by a solid 32 years. Not that Henry knows that. And he's only using the original French because it's the first thing that surfaces in his mind, and he likes it better than any of the English versions he knows—and he never remembers to take the turtle's magic translation properties into account.]
aw yeah.
De vin, de poésie, ou de vertu, à votre guise. Mais enivrez-vous.
[There is never a bad time for Baudelaire. Even if the quote in question postdates Grantaire by a solid 32 years. Not that Henry knows that. And he's only using the original French because it's the first thing that surfaces in his mind, and he likes it better than any of the English versions he knows—and he never remembers to take the turtle's magic translation properties into account.]