– Duchess de Pompidou!! I was not expecting your exquisiteness to grace my modest soirée with your heaven dowred apple-dapple-dawn-drawn beauty—said le Baron de Gruyère while axing his nose into the snuffbox once more.
– Oh, my, Baron! You know that I would never allow myself to miss your periodical gatherings of la créme de la créme of our boring stiffled exiledom—answered the ivory-skinned recently-widowed beauty. Boy, her sweat stunk of money—And how has your wit carried you on lately, if it might not be too much to ask?
– Mon Dieu, baroness! But you know how I appreciate your insightful advice in my every design…! Champignon has been nagging a little bit, what with the three bastards the elegantly departed Viscountesse left him with… Other than that, no worthy faux-pas has reached my poor auditive system…—Snuffbox—Gastón!!
The old meistertailor approached le Baron, measuring wood under his arm. If la gout has not done anything too radical, I guess it will be 56 waist again, but now from closer, Gastón, he looks more like a 58. And what about that 28-36 standing next to him?. Alas, if they let you put your expert hands on such challenging measures.
Ancient fleatermite-ladden Spanish colonial wood. The French aristocrats would never feel this tropical sweatweather as anything but an annoyance. Ah, Versailles! Your chests and drawers will never again overflow with such noble shit…
