"What's the use?"
"What do you say? what's the use? when it's a matter of marrying a millionaire count!"
"You know perfectly well that I love Lucien."
"Oh! bless my soul! love your Lucien all you please, but marry the count; that's all we ask of you."
Aldegonde returned to her room to finish dressing; and Juliette to hers, still cursing the second-hand clothes woman; while Monsieur Mirotaine, who had completed his toilet, appeared in the dining-room and walked around the table, carefully scrutinizing everything that was on it.
"What an array! what a feast! what fuss and feathers! Three glasses at each plate!—why three glasses? Are they supposed to drink three times at once? Ah! these are champagne glasses! How lucky I was to find some champagne for one franc twenty-five! What are all these things? radishes, butter, little onions! What profusion!"
Monsieur Mirotaine began to count the pickles:
"Nine, ten, twelve pickles! and they're big ones, too! That's much too many."
He took away four and put them in his pocket.
"That leaves quite enough. Now for the onions! there are too many of them too."