"It is not that you are stupid, my Soul," he explained; "it is that I am transcendentally clever. To understand the virtues of my work one must have sipped from all the flowers of Literature. 'There is to be found in it Racine, Voltaire, Flaubert, Renan—and always Gustave Tricotrin,' as Lemaître has written. He wrote, '—and always Anatole France,' but I paraphrase him slightly. So you are going to marry Pomponnet? Mon Dieu, when I have any sous in my pocket, I will ruin myself, for the rapture of regretting you among the pastry!"
"I thought," she said, a little mortified, "that you were going to drown yourself?"
"Am I not to write my Lament to you? I must eat while I write it—why not pastry? Also, when I am penniless and starving, you may sometimes, in your prosperity—And yet, perhaps, it is too much to ask?"
"Give you tick, do you mean, dear? But yes, Gustave; how can you doubt that I will do that? In memory of—"
"In memory of the love that has been, you will permit me to run up a small score for cakes, will you not, Lisette?"
"I will, indeed!" she promised. "But, but—Oh, it's quite true, I should never understand you! A minute ago you made me think of you in the Morgue, and now you make me think of you in the cake-shop. What are you laughing at?"
"I laugh, like Figaro," said Tricotrin, "that I may not be obliged to weep. When are you going to throw yourself away, my little Lisette? Has my accursed rival induced you to fix a date?'
"We are to be married in a fortnight's time," she said. "And if you could undertake to be sensible, I would ask Alphonse to invite you to the breakfast."
"In a fortnight's time hunger and a hopeless passion will probably have made an end of me," replied the poet; "however, if I survive, the breakfast will certainly be welcome. Where is it to be held? I can recommend a restaurant that is especially fine at such affairs, and most moderate. 'Photographs of the party are taken gratuitously in the Jardin d'Acclimatation, and pianos are at the disposal of the ladies'; I quote from the menu—I study it in the window every time I pass. There are wedding breakfasts from six to twelve francs per head. At six francs, the party have their choice of two soups and three hors d'oeuvres. Then comes 'poisson'—I fear it may be whiting—filet de boeuf with tomates farcies, bouchées à la Reine, chicken, pigeons, salad, two vegetables, an ice, assorted fruits, and biscuits. The wines are madeira, a bottle of mâcon to each person, a bottle of bordeaux among four persons, and a bottle of champagne among ten persons. Also coffee and liqueurs. At six francs a head! It is good, hein? At seven francs there is a bottle of champagne among every eight persons— Pomponnet will, of course, do as he thinks best. At eight francs, a bottle is provided for every six persons. I have too much delicacy to make suggestions, but should he be willing to soar to twelve francs a head, I might eat enough to last a week—and of such quality! The soups would then be bisque d'écrevisse and consommé Rachel. Rissoles de foies gras would appear. Asparagus 'in branches,' and compote of peaches flavoured with maraschino would be included. Also, in the twelve-franc breakfast, the champagne begins to have a human name on the label!"
Now, it is not certain how much of this information Lisette repeated to Pomponnet, but Pomponnet, having a will of his own, refused to entertain monsieur Tricotrin at any price at all. More-over, he found it unconventional that she should desire the poet's company, considering the attentions that he had paid her; and she was forced to listen, with an air of humility which she was far from feeling, to a lecture on the responsibilities of her new position.