"Ah, Célestine, you do not know the immense delight that you give me. To see a woman who is not a soul! To touch a woman who is not a lily! Kiss me."
You may judge whether I was expecting that.
But the next day, when they read in the "Figaro" an article in which their dinner, their elegance, their taste, their wit, and their social connections were pompously celebrated, they forgot everything, and talked of nothing but their great success. And their soul set sail for more illustrious conquests and more sumptuous snobberies.
"What a charming woman is the Countess Fergus!" said Madame, at lunch, as they were finishing the leavings of the dinner.
"And what a soul!" said Monsieur, in confirmation.
"And Kimberly, would you believe it? There's an astonishing talker for you! And so exquisite in his manners!"
"It is a mistake to make sport of him. After all, his vice concerns no one but himself; it is none of our business."
"Certainly not."
And she added, indulgently:
"Ah! if it were necessary to pick everybody to pieces!"