“Put Monsieur Mitral, my bailiff; Monsieur Haudry, our doctor, as a matter of form,—he won’t come.”
“Yes, he will, for his game of cards.”
“Now, Cesar, I do hope you mean to invite the Abbe Loraux to the dinner,” said Constance.
“I have already written to him,” said Cesar.
“Oh! and don’t forget the sister-in-law of Monsieur Lebas, Madame Augustine Sommervieux,” said Cesarine. “Poor little woman, she is so delicate; she is dying of grief, so Monsieur Lebas says.”
“That’s what it is to marry artists!” cried her father. “Look! there’s your mother asleep,” he whispered. “La! la! a very good night to you, Madame Cesar—Now, then,” he added, “about your mother’s ball-dress?”
“Yes, papa, it will be all ready. Mamma thinks she will wear her china-crape like mine. The dressmaker is sure there is no need of trying it on.”
“How many people have you got down,” said Cesar aloud, seeing that Constance opened her eyes.
“One hundred and nine, with the clerks.”
“Where shall we ever put them all?” said Madame Birotteau. “But, anyhow, after that Sunday,” she added naively, “there will come a Monday.”