"No, but they had been in a very hot climate. You see, he was over in
France during the last peace, and he went to the baths at Montpellier
for the benefit of his health. He lodged with an old Frenchman. Now, you
see, Mrs. St. Felix, in the south of France they have a custom of making
certain pies, which are much esteemed, and are called pâtes de foie
gras--that means livers of geese, in French."

"It don't sound much like livers in English, doctor; but never mind
that, go on with your story."

"Here's a customer, Mrs. St. Felix; serve him first, and then I will go
on with my story."

An old pensioner came in, and laying the coppers on the counter, asked
for a ha'p'orth of returns and a farthing of snuff.

"That's a large ready money order, doctor," said the widow, as the man
left the shop. "Ain't I making my fortune? Now go on; I'm as eager about
the liver as my own cat."

"Well, the great object is to increase the size of the geese's livers,
that is, to bring on a regular liver complaint; and, to effect this,
they put the poor animals in a hot closet next the kitchen fire, cram
the food into their mouths through a funnel, and give them plenty of
water to drink. This produces the disease; and the livers of the geese,
when they are killed, very often weigh three or four pounds, while the
animals themselves are mere skeletons."

"And the French eat those liver complaints?" interrupted the widow,
making a face.