“Well, what have you brought me to-day?” asked Chérubin.
“What I have brought you, monsieur le marquis,—is a bargain.”
“Always bargains,” muttered Jasmin; “we know all about that.”
“I have just come from the sale at an ex-minister’s house; he was a great epicure. At your age, monsieur le marquis, young people like sweetmeats—good things—especially those that are hard to get. Faith, when this was put up for sale, I thought that you might like it.”
As he spoke, Monsieur Poterne produced from beneath his coat a huge jar of blue china, carefully sealed with parchment.
“What is there in that, Monsieur Poterne?”
“Indian preserve, monsieur le marquis; it’s a very popular sweetmeat in hot countries, and very rare in France, on account of the difficulty of bringing it here; this is made of pineapples.”
“The deuce!” muttered Jasmin; “he’s taken to bringing us eatables now! This is the finishing touch!”
“A jar of this size is ordinarily worth a hundred francs at Chevet’s, when he has any. I got this for fifty, and I bought it with the intention of offering it to you.”
“Thanks, Monsieur Poterne; pineapple preserve should be delicious, in very truth.—Jasmin, give Monsieur Poterne fifty francs, then take this preserve to the pantry.”