"I should prefer, if it's all the same to you, the chicken wing I see on that dish."
"That's all right. Draw up to the table.—Manette, a plate for Madame Putiphar.—Will you have some pâté de foie gras too?"
"You tempt me—but, really, I am ashamed of myself. Monsieur will think I'm a great glutton."
"That's not a failing, madame; it's a good quality."
Madame Putiphar took her place at the table, stuffed herself with chicken, pâté, and truffles, partook freely of claret, madeira, and champagne, and never paused for breath until the dessert was being brought on. Then she wiped her mouth, saying:
"A very pretty little feast; monsieur knows how to treat the ladies."
"Oh! Dodichet's very polite," said Boulotte; "he's eaten up a lot of money with women."
"Mon Dieu! mesdames, what is the good of money, if not to give you pleasure?"
"Ah! what a sweet sentiment! Monsieur deserves to be embalmed."
"What's that! embalmed?"