"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?" "Madame, the Graces are the ladies; the Zephyrs and the Loves fly at their heels; Pleasure and Laughter form their train and strew roses along their path." "Phew! what sort of a stew is that, my boy, made out of roses and rice."[D] [D] _Ris_, meaning _laughter_, has the same pronunciation as _riz_ (rice). "I mean to imply, madame, that there are remarks at which modesty takes offence, and that, when telling stories, you should touch very lightly upon certain subjects, for "'Le Latin dans les mots brave l'honnêteté, Mais l'auditeur Français veut être respecté! Du moindre sens impur la liberté l'outrage Si la pudeur des mots n'en adoucit l'image.'"[E] [E] The Latin tongue defies decency, but the French listener insists on being treated with respect. He is offended by the faintest touch of impurity of sense unless the image is softened by the decency of the words. Mère Thomas roared with laughter, and, turning to her neighbor with the pigeon's wings, who was dipping a macaroon in champagne, his face still wearing a scowl, she said: "Do you understand that, old fox? That fellow says he's got impure senses; it ain't decent to make a confession like that at dessert." "Ah! madame!" cried the poet, flushing with wrath, "no one ever dared----" "What's up, Biribi? Bah! you're losing your temper, my lad, you're red as a turkey-cock; I see that; but I'm a good-natured fool, and I ain't got no more gall 'n a flea. Let's drink together; that's better'n talking about your fat women--grasses, Graces--and your thin women, what I don't know nothing about. Some wine, marquis--that nice little wine as foams. Oh! I know what this is; it's champagne, that's what it is; it ain't no fraud, like your madeira! Your health, my little duckies; yours, Thomas. Whatever's the matter with you, my son? You don't say nothing, and you look as queer as queer; be you going to go off the hooks, like your wife? We must have a song, children; that's always the thing at dessert. Come! who's going to be the one to begin? Thomas, you used to know lots o' songs; I'm going to sing you the one Chahû's wife sung to my wedding: "'J'entre en train quand il entre en train, J'entre en train quand il entre--'" You must sing the chorus, children." "One moment, one moment, madame," said the marquis; "pray wait for the coffee and liqueurs." "Oh, yes! that's so, my friend; they'll clear my voice." "This is getting worse and worse!" said the marquis to his host in an undertone. "Oh! monsieur le marquis, I am in utter despair; I am overwhelmed with confusion; I am afraid to turn my head!"