“Lafleur! Jasmin! Comtois! take these plates away; serve the dessert, I say!”
In vain did Monsieur de la Thomassinière shout to his servants—his mother continued her narrative none the less:
“You must know, my children, that Chahû was one of the biggest eaters in all Brie; he was a chap with a big head, and he’d put down a turkey, saving your presence, just as slick as you or me’d swallow a lark. Bless my soul, if he didn’t take a fancy one day to bet me that he’d eat more’n me of a rabbit stew I’d made for a mason’s wedding feast. I’m a sly fox, so I took his bet; and when we’d got half through, I told him in confidence that it was cats as I’d stewed up; and at that my jackass turned up his toes and got rid of his dinner on the floor.”
The ladies refused to listen to any more; they left the table and took refuge in the salon. Monsieur de la Thomassinière was beside himself; he turned red, yellow and lead-colored in turn; the perspiration stood on his brow; he poured wine in his plate and put his fork in his glass. The young men laughed heartily, Auguste with the rest, for he was of the opinion that his host well deserved this little lesson. Destival was radiant; his eyes sparkled with delight as he looked from one person to another and finally fastened his gaze on La Thomassinière. The Marquis de Cligneval looked at his host with an expression which signified: “Gad! I’ve done what I could; but, as you see, it’s impossible to hold her back.”
“Well! what makes all them pretty females go scooting off at once?” queried Mère Thomas; “be they all going to the closet together? I say, it’s like the hens down our way: when one goes, the others have to follow.”
A young poet, who had written some verses for Madame de la Thomassinière, and who was exceedingly annoyed because Mère Thomas’s arrival, by causing Athalie to swoon and putting the ladies to flight, had prevented him from reciting his quatrain, which would, so he thought, create a sensation, said to the buxom dame, as he readjusted his collar:
“Madame, it is your fault in some degree that the Graces have fled from us.”
“What’s that you say, my little dapper?” retorted Mère Thomas, planting both elbows on the table, the better to observe the young man.
“I say, madame,” replied the poet, “that the Graces are easily frightened, and that——”
“What’s that you’re singing about your Graces! Be they birds you’re trying to tame?”