at the servants know, all
that they tell in their quarters, if they could hear their names
dragged about in the sweepings of the salons and the kitchen refuse,
they would never again dare to say so much as: "Close the door," or
"Order the carriage." There's Dr. Jenkins, for example, with the
richest practice in Paris, has lived ten years with a magnificent wife,
who is eagerly welcomed everywhere; he has done everything he could to
conceal his real position, announced his marriage in the newspapers in
the English style, and hired only foreign servants who know barely
three words of French, but all to no purpose. With these few words,
seasoned with faubourg oaths and blows on the table, his coachman Joe,
who detests him, told us his whole history while we were at supper.

"She's going to croak, his Irishwoman, his real wife. Now we'll see if
he'll marry the other one. Forty-five years old Mistress Maranne is,
and not a shilling. You ought to see how afraid she is that he'll turn
her out. Marry her, not marry her--_kss-kss_--what a laugh we'll have."
And the more they gave him to drink, the more he told, speaking of his
unfortunate mistress as the lowest of the low. For my part, I confess
that she excited my interest, that false Madame Jenkins, who weeps in
every corner, implores her husband as if he were the headsman, and is
in danger of being sent about her business when all society believes
her to be married, respectable, established for life. The others did
nothing but laugh, especially the women. _Dame!_ it is amusing when one
is in service to see that these ladies of the upper ten have their
affronts too, and tormenting cares which keep them awake.

At that moment our party presented a most animated aspect, a circle of
merry faces turned toward the Irishman, who carried off the palm by his
anecdote. That aroused envy; every one rummaged his memory and dragged
out whatever he could find there of old scandals, adventures of
betrayed husbands, all the domestic secrets that are poured out on the
kitchen table with the remains of dishes and the dregs of bottles. The
champagne was beginning to lay hold of its victims among the guests.
Joe insisted on dancing a jig on the cloth. The ladies, at the
slightest suggestion that was a trifle broad, threw themselves back
with the piercing laughter of a person who is being tickled, letting
their embroidered skirts drag under the table, which was piled with
broken victuals, and co