“All the world is here,” he said, “to-night. I find you on your throne, madame, the queen of the village.”
Madame Dupré was so pleased that she accorded him a civility shown to few. She got up to offer him a seat, and called to Baptiste to bring her a certain precious little bottle.
“Monsieur must taste it—it is genuine,” she said; “it was brought me from the hands of the monks who have the secret.”
“Ah, the monks!” some one said; “they like to keep all the good things to themselves.”
“And with good reason,” said Mr Goulburn. “Could I make anything so good as this, certainly I should keep it to myself.”
This mot had a little succès in the company which pleased its author. It is hard to say how far down we will go for applause without any sense of lowering ourselves. Praise is always pleasant.
“Monsieur has reason,” said Madame Dupré. “I am not dévote, but now and then I like to hear one who will say a good word for the clergy.”
Old M. Goudron, who was sitting by, took his cigar out of his mouth.
“Madame is too good,” said the old man; “she would say a good word for the devil, if there is such a person, and if he were a customer at the Lion d’Or.”
“The clergy are no customers of mine, nor do I hold with them any more than you do,” Madame Dupré began, with rising colour, when the Englishman poured oil on the waves.