Vanille

Each lovely lady close to a cavalier / Who holds her dear fan while she feeds her smile / On meditative spoonfuls of vanille, / He breathing hot protesting vows of love, / Enough to thaw her cream, and scorch his beard.

And what is this delicious scent about the air? Vanille? Of course it is; […]

The three Benoît girls and Madame Morice were seated round a table furnished with dainty little white cups and saucers, a plate of delicate biscuits, and a chocolatière which breathed odours of vanille.