“Well, then the newspapers are right?” said Pillerault.
“There’s my uncle talking politics,” said Birotteau. “Monsieur Claparon has won his heart.”
“Devilish rogues, the newspapers,” said Claparon. “Monsieur, the newspapers do all the mischief. They are useful sometimes, but they keep me awake many a night. I wish they didn’t. I have put my eyes out reading and ciphering.”
“To go back to the ministers,” said Pillerault, hoping for revelations.
“Ministers are a mere necessity of government. Ah! what am I eating? ambrosia?” said Claparon, breaking off. “This is a sauce you’ll never find except at a tradesman’s table, for the pot-houses—”
Here the flowers in Madame Ragon’s cap skipped like young rams. Claparon perceived the word was low, and tried to catch himself up.
“In bank circles,” he said, “we call the best cafes.—Very, and the Freres Provencaux,—pot-houses in jest. Well, neither those infamous pot-houses nor our most scientific cooks can make us a sauce like this; mellifluous! Some give you clear water soured with lemon, and the rest drugs, chemicals.”
Pillerault tried throughout the dinner to fathom this extraordinary being; finding only a void, he began to think him dangerous.
“All’s well,” whispered Roguin to Claparon.
“I shall get out of these clothes to-night, at any rate,” answered Claparon, who was choking.