"Has his charmer been well seasoned?"
"I didn't ask him."
"Well! tell us about the scene with the would-be husband at Monsieur Mirotaine's, the marriage à la Putiphar."
"Everything went off perfectly; but in the evening, a friend of mine, Phœbus Dubotté—I call him Phœbus because he's fair-haired and conceited—Phœbus arrived with his wife. It happens that he knows the individual whom I had introduced as an Italian count."
"The man who lends you money because you know a secret that concerns him, and in whose presence we mustn't mention Pontoise?"
"The same; Boulotte, you have a memory like a creditor. But Phœbus mentioned Pontoise, and called my friend Miflorès by his true name. You can guess the effect produced by that recognition!—Pass me a cigarette.—The Mirotaines are furious, Putiphar would like an opportunity to horsewhip me. My false count ran away, and I took my leave, declaring that I proposed to run my sword through him somewhere. The dénouement of our comedy was hurried a little; but it had to come to an end some time, and I was beginning to be rather tired of the Mirotaine circle. Still, there were some excellent types there. A certain Monsieur Brid'oison, who looked on in admiration while his son performed gymnastic feats on everybody's shoulders; his wife ate her hair, and a sister of the host wept all the while because a pickled onion hit her in the eye."
"And the dinner—was that good?"
"A miser's dinner. Wretched wines! no truffles! a crême au camphre!"
"Au camphre?"
"With camphor instead of sugar; I don't advise you to try it; it isn't a satisfactory substitute. However, we did the trick; and I have just been to see Lucien, to tell him how I have helped on his love affair."