_Poirier_ [_aside_]--Another fellow who adores his name! [_Aloud_.] You
may burn your brains, Monsieur Vatel, but don't burn your sauces.--Well,
_bon jour_! [_Exit Vatel_.] And now to write invitations to my old
cronies of the Rue des Bourdonnais. Monsieur le Marquis de Presles, I'll
soon take the starch out of you.

[_He goes out whistling the first couplet of 'Monsieur and Madame
Denis.'_]


A CONTEST OF WILLS

From 'The Fourchambaults'

_Madame Fourchambault_--Why do you follow me?

_Fourchambault_--I'm not following you: I'm accompanying you.

_Madame Fourchambault_--I despise you; let me alone. Oh! my poor mother
little thought what a life of privation would be mine when she gave me
to you with a dowry of eight hundred thousand francs!

_Fourchambault_--A life of privation--because I refuse you a yacht!

_Madame Fourchambault_--I thought my dowry permitted me to indulge a
few whims, but it seems I was wrong.

_Fourchambault_--A whim costing eight thousand francs!