"A salmi of partridge _aux truffes_." "That must be heating; but give me a bit of your _salmigondis aux truffes_, I'll take the chances.--and that big dish all covered over with sauce?" "That's a _Sultane à la Chantilly_." "A sultana! The dear boy! does he take us for Turks, I wonder! Just give me a taste of that too, so that I'll know how those miserable dogs cook." "You'll make yourself ill, Madame Thomas," said La Thomassinière in an undertone, horrified to see his mother's eyes grow brighter and brighter, and that she insisted on tasting all the wines as well as all the dishes. "Get out, boy, I've got a stomach like an ostrich! Don't you remember the bet I made one day with our cousin as kept the eating house? A fine man, he was! He died three year ago, poor Chahû!" "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."