"Why, you know perfectly well that I don't take snuff."
"This brand is well worth departing from your habit."
Monsieur Mirotaine took a pinch and stuffed it into his nose, with a sign of approbation. But the pungent powder soon produced its inevitable effect upon one who was unaccustomed to its use: Monsieur Mirotaine sneezed twice in rapid succession, and the second time the effect was of such a nature that he was obliged to resort to his handkerchief in hot haste, in order to wipe his nose. So he thrust his hand hurriedly into his pocket, and pulled out his handkerchief so quickly that with it he sent pickles, radishes, and onions flying about the room.
Everybody was dumfounded; they gazed in amazement at the hors-d'œuvre strewn about the floor and on the furniture. Madame Trichon alone uttered a cry of pain; the poor woman had no luck; she had received an onion in the eye, and, as it was pickled, it caused the delicate spot it had struck to smart vigorously.
"How is this, monsieur? is it possible that you put some of the hors-d'œuvre in your pocket?" said Aldegonde. "And to think that I suspected poor Goth! Fie, monsieur, for shame! that is unpardonable!"
Instead of asking his wife's forgiveness, Monsieur Mirotaine was on his hands and knees, picking up the delicacies he had unwittingly taken from his pocket. As for Madame Trichon, she went off to weep by herself in a corner, declaring that there was a conspiracy to disfigure her.
While they were taking their coffee, Dodichet said to his friend:
"Come, Miflorès, for heaven's sake talk a little! try to make yourself agreeable to the ladies. You act like an oyster, my dear fellow."
"I didn't ask you to bring me here; it was you who insisted on my coming, saying that it would inspire confidence in the master of the house, with whom you hoped to do a big business."
"That is true, perfectly true; that is why I passed you off for an Italian count."