"If you want some good advice," said Madame Dehan, wiping away with the back of her hand the coffee that dribbled down her chin, "You had better go and baptize your child."
"I shall make sure and do that," said Macarée.
"And I even think," said Mademoiselle Baba, "that it would be best to do it on the day he is born."
"In fact," Madam Dehan mumbled, her mouth full of food, "you can never tell what may happen. Then you will nurse him yourself, and if I were you, if I had money like you, I should try to go to Rome before the confinement and get the Pope to bless me. Your child will never know either the paternal caress or blow, he will never utter the sweet name of papa. May the blessing of the Holy Papa at least follow him all his life."
And Madame Dehan began to sob like a kettle boiling over, while Macarée burst into tears as abundant as a spouting whale. But what of Mademoiselle Baba? Her lips blue with berries, she wept so hard that from her throat the sobs flooded down to her hymen and nearly choked her.
[IV. NOBILITY]
After having won a great deal of money at baccarat, and already rich, thanks to Love, Macarée, whose corpulency nothing could conceal, came to Paris, where above all, she ran after the most fashionable modistes.
How chic she was, how chic she was!
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