Translated by Charles E. Roche.
ea of all that must disgust you."
From the depths of his cushions Trublet, wafting a kiss to Félicie, replied:
"My dear child, there is no more exquisitely delicate, rich, and beautiful tissue than the skin of a pretty woman. That is what I was telling myself just now, while contemplating the back of your neck, and you will readily understand that, under such an impression----"
She made a grimace at him like that of a disdainful monkey.
"You think it witty, I suppose, to talk nonsense when anyone asks you a serious question?"
"Well, then, since you wish it, mademoiselle, you shall have an instructive answer. Some twenty years ago we had, in the post-mortem room at the Hôpital Saint-Joseph, a drunken old watchman, named Daddy Rousseau, who every day at eleven o'clock used to lunch at the end of the table on which the corpse was lying. He ate his lunch because he was hungry. Nothing prevents people who are hungry from eating as soon as they have got something to e