And he continued. And he must have been lucky in his operations; for he had never been so pleasant at home. All his ways had changed. He had had clothes made at a first-class tailor’s, and was evidently trying to look elegant. He gave up his pipe, and smoked only cigars. He got tired of giving every morning the money for the house, and took the habit of handing it to his wife every week, on Sunday. A mark of vast confidence, as he observed to her. And so, the first time: “Be careful,” he said, “that you don’t find yourself penniless before Thursday.” He became also more communicative. Often during the dinner, he would tell what he had heard during the day, anecdotes, gossip. He enumerated the persons with whom he had spoken. He named a number of people whom he called his friends, and whose names Mme. Favoral carefully stored away in her memory. There was one especially, who seemed to inspire him with a profound respect, a boundless admiration, and of whom he never tired of talking. He was, said he, a man of his age,--M. de Thaller, the Baron de Thaller. “This one,” he kept repeating, “is really mad: he is rich, he has ideas, he’ll go far. It would be a great piece of luck if I could get him to do something for me!” Until at last one day: “Your parents were very rich once?” he asked his wife. “I have heard it said,” she answered. “They spent a good deal of money, did they not? They had friends: they gave dinner-parties.” “Yes, they received a good deal of company.” “You remember that time?” “Surely I do.” “So that if I should take a fancy to receive some one here, some one of note, you would know how to do things properly?” “I think so.” He remained silent for a moment, like a man who thinks before taking an important decision, and then: “I wish to invite a few persons to dinner,” he said. She could scarcely believe her ears. He had never received at his table any one but a fellow-clerk at the factory, named Desclavettes, who had just married the daughter of a dealer in bronzes, and succeeded to his business. “Is it possible?” exclaimed Mme. Favoral. “So it is. The question is now, how much would a first-class dinner cost, the best of every thing?” “That depends upon the number of guests.” “Say three or four persons.” The poor woman set herself to figuring diligently for some time; and then timidly, for the sum seemed formidable to her: “I think,” she began, “that with a hundred francs--” Her husband commenced whistling. “You’ll need that for the wines alone;” he interrupted. “Do you take me for a fool? But here, don’t let us go into figures. Do as your parents did when they did their best; and, if it’s well, I shall not complain of the expense. Take a good cook, hire a waiter who understands his business well.” She was utterly confounded; and yet she was not at the end of her surprises.