"With pleasure, baron."
"I can recommend it. It comes from King Leopold's cellar."
"A present?"
"Yes, a present I made myself."
"It's delicious. . . . What a bouquet! . . . With this pâté de foie gras, it's simply wonderful! . . . I must congratulate you, baron; you have a first-rate chef."
"My chef is a woman-cook, prince. I bribed her with untold gold to leave Levraud, the socialist deputy. I say, try this hot chocolate-ice; and let me call your special attention to the little dry cakes that go with it. They're an invention of genius, those cakes."
"The shape is charming, in any case," said Sernine, helping himself. "If they taste as good as they look. . . . Here, Sirius, you're sure to like this. Locusta herself could not have done better."
He took one of the cakes and gave it to the dog. Sirius swallowed it at a gulp, stood motionless for two or three seconds, as though dazed, then turned in a circle and fell to the floor dead.
Sernine started back from his chair, lest one of the footmen should fall upon him unawares. Then he burst out laughing:
"Look here, baron, next time you want to poison one of your friends, try to steady your voice and to keep your hands from shaking. . . . Otherwise, people suspect you. . . . But I thought you disliked murder?"