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"There are no bandits," cried Debray. "Yes there are, and most hideous, or rather most admirable ones, for I found them ugly enough to frighten me." "Come, my dear Albert," said Debray, "confess that your cook is behindhand, that the oysters have not arrived from Ostend or Marennes, and that, like Madame de Maintenon, you are going to replace the dish by a story.
In fact, one of the first and abiding impressions of Bordeaux is that it is a great place for things to eat oysters from Marennes, lobsters and langoustes, pears big as cantaloupes, pomegranates, mushrooms the little ones and the big cepes of Bordeaux yellow dates just up from Tunis.
Did M. de Boiscoran keep a mistress?" "No, sir." "Did he ever have one?" "Never. But that was mere childishness. Besides, that was five years ago, and the woman has been married these three years to a basket-maker at Marennes." "You are quite sure of what you say?" "As sure as I am of myself.
Court must still be wearing out her trousseau and her youngest was three! Mrs. Rhode had no more taste, my dear, than our cook. The men were not far behind had looked out for Captain Tottenham in the Army List; went to Galignani's expressly: not in it, by Jove, sir! Is quite up to Marennes oysters: wonder where he could have heard of 'em.
"How often must I tell you to get on?" "Forgive me, monsieur, but it is all part of my story. We had oysters, two dozen Marennes, and a glass or two of Chablis; then a good portion of tripe, and with them a bottle, only one, monsieur, of Pontet Canet; after that a beefsteak with potatoes and a little Burgundy, then a rum omelet."
"Eight dozen Marennes for No. 6," shouted a waiter to the man who opened oysters near the restaurant door. On hearing this order, Chupin shook his clenched fist at the stars. "The wretches!" he muttered through his set teeth; "bad luck to them! Those oysters are for their mouths, plainly enough, for there are eight of them in all, counting those yellow-haired women.
She had, her dearest friends said, almost made up her mind to marry into commerce. "Poor Tayleure!" one of the attachés said, at the Café Anglais, over his Marennes oysters, after the opera; "doomed to pig-iron, I'm afraid. Must do it. Can't carry on much longer. Another skein of false hair this season, by Jove."
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