“That is true, madame, that is perfectly true. I supply the money, I pay the bills. Twelve hundred francs to a milliner seems a trifle expensive. But madame must have the best there is.”
“If you lose your temper, monsieur, the next bill will be twice as large.”
“You know well enough, madame, that when it’s a question of giving you money, I never have to be asked twice. When one is rich, that’s perfectly natural; we must help the tradesmen to make money; isn’t that so, Destival?”
“To be sure,” replied his host, “I have the same feeling.—Well, what do you think of my claret? You don’t say anything about it.”
“It is very fair; but I have some better than this, oh! much better! I will give you some when you come to my house, and you’ll see.”
“And this cream—do you like it, madame?”
“Very much,” replied the petite-maîtresse. But Monsieur de la Thomassinière helped himself to three spoonfuls, saying:
“Let’s taste the cream.” Then he made a slight grimace and added: “Oh! my estate is the place for fine dairy products! This can’t be compared with it; it’s an entirely different thing! And our fowls! ah! they are delicious. To be sure, they are fed with such care! Now you people think that you are eating something good when you eat a chicken like this. Well, let me tell you that if you should see my poultry yard at Fleury, you would look on this as rubbish.”
“It is very fortunate then that we know nothing about it,” retorted Madame Destival, with a meaning glance at her husband. He, to change the subject of that pleasant conversation, turned to Monin, who had not said a word since he had been at the table, being engrossed by the second joint of a chicken, which he seasoned now and then with snuff, glancing occasionally with the eye of a connoisseur at a magnificent pie that stood in front of him, to which he seemed to be saying: “How’s your health?”
“Your appetite seems to be in good condition, neighbor?” said Destival.