And the pâté de foie gras builds his nest
In the hedge where the anchovy paste grows best.”
And she concluded with another “Houp-là!”
At this Papa Bouchard, who had been as much horrified as de Meneval, leaned over and whispered in agony to him:
“She has certainly lost her mind and appears quite crazy!”
This was too much for poor de Meneval. He had spent an hour of torture while Léontine, vastly to her own amusement, to Major Fallière’s, and to that of the Pouters, had exhibited all the saucy graces of a Satanita, and Queen of the Harem-Scarem, but de Meneval could stand no more. Therefore, rising from the table, he cried, with tears in his eyes:
“My friends, I beg of you to leave me. This lady who calls herself Satanita is my wife. I have never seen her act in this manner before—I am sure she never so acted before. It is my duty as well as my privilege to shield her, and I wish to say that if any person, man or woman, ever mentions what her unfortunate conduct to-night has been, a life will be forfeited, for I swear to shoot any man who dares to breathe one word against her, and any woman who does it may reckon on my vengeance.” And with big tears rolling down his cheeks, he held his arms out to his wife.
This was too much for Léontine. Just as Major Fallière had predicted, at the first sign of repentance on de Meneval’s part she forgot all her resolutions to punish him, and falling into his arms, she exclaimed, in her own, natural voice:
“You dear, chivalrous angel, I haven’t touched champagne—it is nothing but apollinaris water, and I am your own true, devoted Léontine!”