"Yes, she's a Burgundian; she had a name that I didn't fancy—it was Cateau![D] You understand that, when I had a lady of fashion here, I couldn't say: 'Cateau, come and take off madame's shawl. Cateau, go and call a cab.' To talk constantly of Cateau before my models, too, was imprudent. So I asked my Burgundian for her family name, and she's a Crevette."
The Burgundian answered her master's summons. She was a robust young woman, with plump red cheeks, and enormous hands and arms of the hue of boiled lobster. She laughed readily enough at the somewhat décolleté jests which the young men addressed to her; but when their words were reinforced by gestures, the Burgundian made free use of her hands, and the lightest tap dealt by her was equivalent to a hard blow with the fist.
"Bring us something to drink, Crevette."
"Punch?" said the Burgundian.
"Beer for me, my chubby wench!—Isn't she fresh, though! and solid!"
"Come, come! down with your paws! I won't have you touching me!"
"Oh! what a calf she must have!—Crevette, show me your leg, just up to the garter, and I'll give you half of my winnings."
"No, I won't show you anything."
"Parbleu! that's a magnificent offer of his, to give you half of his winnings! he's lost ten napoleons already!"
Young Tobie, who had swallowed three glasses of punch in succession in order to attain the level of the rest of the company, softly approached the servant and seized her leg while her back was turned; but the Burgundian, without putting down her tray, instantly brought her elbow back against his nose, crying: