took off his nightcap, sent the concierge to fetch an old, shabby, felt
hat, which he carried under his arm in order to preserve it longer; he
put on a coat once nut-colored, but of which no one could possibly
divine the color now, and did not forget the bill-headed cane, upon
which he leaned the more heavily, because he thought that by using a
support for part of his weight, he would save the soles of his shoes.
They went to the office of the local notary; he received the details of
the bargain, and promised to have the deed ready in due form in
twenty-four hours. Edouard agreed to return to the village on the
following day with the purchase money, and Monsieur Renâré,--such was
the proprietor’s name,--agreed to be punctual and to turn over the keys
of the house. Everything being settled, they separated, each party well
pleased with his bargain.
VI
A DINNER PARTY IN THE COUNTRY
“Now let us think about dinner,” said Edouard, as he and the ladies left
the notary’s, “and let us try to find the best restaurant in the place.”
“We ought to have asked Monsieur Renâré that, my dear.”
“No indeed! I am sure that the old miser goes to the vilest wine-shop,
in order to dine the cheaper. But I see yonder a very good-looking
house--it is a wine-shop and restaurant,--the _Epée Couronnée_, ‘wedding
and other parties.’--What do you say to that, mesdames?”
“Very good; let us go to the Epée Couronnée.”
They entered the country restaurant; the outer walls were adorned with
hams, pies, turkeys, chickens, game, and bunches of asparagus; but as a
rule the kitchen of a village restaurant never contains more than one
fourth of what is painted on the front wall; and even so, the ovens are
often cold.
When our Parisians entered the common room of the Epée Couronnée, the
proprietor, who was also chief cook, was occupied in shaving, his little
scullion was playing with a cup-and-ball, the mistress of the house was
knitting, and the two girls who did the heavy work were washing and
ironing.
“The deuce!” said Edouard in an undertone, “this doesn’t indicate a very
well-heated oven! However, in war we must do as soldiers do!”
“Yes, my dear; besides, appetite is a very good cook.”
At sight of two fashionably-dressed ladies, escorted by a fine
gentleman, and of a cabriolet in front of the door, everybody in the
restaurant was up in arms. The proprietor threw razor and shaving-mug
aside; he partly wiped his face, and came forward, half shaved, to meet
the newcomers, to whom he made repeated bows. His wife hastily dropped
her knitting and rolled it up, as she made a curtsy, and placed it on a
table on which the girls were ironing; whereupon Goton, one of the
servants, who then had in her hand a very hot iron, looked up to examine
the fine ladies who were coming in, and placed the iron on her
mistress’s hand, thinking that she was ironing an apron.
Her mistress uttered a piercing cry when she felt the burn; she jumped
back and overturned the tub; the little scullion, in his fright,
concealed his cup-and-ball in a saucepan, and the ladies recoiled, in
order not to walk in soap-suds, with which the floor was flooded.
The host confounded himself in apologies, trying at the same time to
pacify his wife.
“A thousand pardons, mesdames and monsieur; pray walk in.--Hush, wife!
it won’t amount to anything; I do much worse things to myself every
day.--We have everything that you can possibly desire, mesdames; the
kitchen is well stocked.--It was that idiot of a Goton, who never looks
to see what she is doing. Put some potato on it, wife.--But step in,
mesdames, and select a bedroom or a private dining-room, whichever you
please.”
The ladies were in no hurry to enter, because they did not want to wet
their feet. At last one of the maids brought a long board, which they
used as a bridge to pass into another room; they made the passage,
laughing heartily, and looked forward to much enjoyment at an inn where
their arrival had already caused such a sensation.
“Well, monsieur le traiteur, what can you give us?” Murville asked the
cook, who followed them, boasting of his talent in serving a dinner
promptly.
“Why, monsieur, I can give you a rabbit stew which will please you.”
“Parbleu! Rabbit stew is never missing in these places! But we don’t
care much for it; have you any cutlets?”
“Yes, monsieur, I can easily get some.”
“And a fowl?”
“I have one which should be excellent.”
“Fresh eggs?”
“Oh! as to eggs, I don’t have any but fresh ones.”
“Well, that is all that we want; with lettuce and some of your best wine
we shall dine very well, shall we not, mesdames?”
“Yes, but don’t keep us waiting, for we are positively starving.”
“Never fear, mesdames, it will take but a moment.”
Master Bonneau returned to his staff.
“Look alive,” he said, tying his handkerchief around his waist, which he
only did on great occasions; “look alive, wife and girls, we have swells
to feed, and we have nothing except the regulation rabbit stew, which
unfortunately they don’t want, and that infernal fowl which I roasted a
week ago for a Jew who ate nothing but fresh pork, and which I haven’t
been able to do anything with since; I hope that it is going to be eaten
at last. Goton, put it on the spit again; that will be the fifth time, I
believe; but never mind, I will make a gravy with the juice of that beef
_à la mode_, and it will be delicious.”
“Mon Dieu! what a horrible burn! This is the seventh potato that I have
scraped on it.”
“Parbleu! you give me a happy idea: these grated potatoes are all
cooked, put ’em aside, wife, and I will make a soufflé for our guests.
You, Fanfan, run to the butcher and get some cutlets, and you, Marianne,
go and buy some eggs, and come back and pick some lettuce. By the way,
light me a candle, as quick as possible, and give me some wax, so that I
can put seals on my bottles; that makes people think that the wine is
better.”
Everyone set about executing Master Bonneau’s orders, while he lighted
his fires and turned up his sleeves with an important air, in order to
heat water for the eggs; Goton put the unlucky fowl on the spit, praying
heaven that it might be the last time; Marianne brought eggs and went
out into the garden to pluck lettuce; and Madame Bonneau grated potato
after potato, which she placed upon her burn, and then carefully
collected in a plate, as her husband had directed, because a clever cook
makes use of everything.
But Fanfan returned from the butcher’s with sad news: “there were no
cutlets, because the mayor had bought the last that morning; but if they
could wait a while, the shop-boy, who had gone to sharpen his knives,
would come back, and they would kill a sheep.”
“The devil! this is mighty unpleasant,” said Master Bonneau, as he put
his eggs in the water; “well, I must go and consult with the company.”
The host entered the room where the ladies and the young man were
beginning to get impatient for their dinner, while they laughed over the
scene which their unexpected arrival had caused.
“Well, are we going to dine?” said Edouard when he caught sight of their
host.
“Instantly, monsieur.”
“Your instants are very long, monsieur le traiteur.”
“I came to get your opinion on the cutlets.”
“What’s that?”
“There aren’t any just now at the butcher’s; but the man is coming back,
and he is going to kill a sheep; so if you will take a turn in the
garden until they are cooked----”
“Parbleu! we should have to wait a long while! A pleasant suggestion
that! We didn’t come here to inspect your bed of lettuce.”
“Come, come, my dear, don’t get excited,” said Adeline, laughing at the
placidity of their host, and the irritation of Edouard, “we will do
without cutlets.”
“May I replace that dish with an excellent rabbit stew?”
“Give us whatever you please, but give us something at least.”
“You shall be served instantly.”
Master Bonneau was well pleased to give them rabbit stew; it was the
dish in which he most excelled, for he had had twenty years’ practice in
making good ones. He seized the saucepan containing the remnants of two
rabbits, and placed it over the fire; then after covering it, he
instructed Fanfan to watch it, and went to carry the fresh eggs to his
guests.
“You see, mesdames, that I am prompt,” he said as he gracefully placed
the eggs on the table. “By the way, I thought that a soufflé of potatoes
and orange blossoms would not displease the company.”
“What, monsieur, do you make soufflés at the Epée Couronnée?”
“Yes, monsieur, and a good sort too, I flatter myself.”
“Then you are an expert?”
“Why, monsieur, when one has learned the profession at Paris, at the
Boisseau Fleuri, one is equal to anything.”
“Oho! that makes a difference! If you are a graduate of the Boisseau
Fleuri, we are surprised at nothing, and we await your soufflés with
confidence.”
Bonneau retired, all puffed up with the compliments they had paid him.
The ladies tried to crumble their bread into their eggs, but it was
impossible; they were cooked so hard that they had to make up their
minds to remove the shells and eat them from their hands. Adeline
shouted with laughter, Madame Germeuil shook her head, and Edouard
announced that to cap the climax the eggs smelled of straw.
“This does not give me a very pleasant anticipation of the soufflés,”
said the mother, placing her egg on the table.
“Well, madame, let us still hope! Great men, you know, pay no heed to
small matters, and the pupil of the Boisseau Fleuri may well not know
how to cook eggs.”
Bonneau entered the room, carrying in his two hands an enormous dish of
rabbit stew, which he placed in front of Edouard.
“Monsieur le traiteur, for a man equal to anything, you made rather a
failure of our eggs; they are boiled hard and smell of straw.”
“As for the straw, monsieur, you must know that I don’t make the eggs
myself, that depends entirely on the hens; as for the way they were
cooked, that is entirely the fault of the water; I leave the eggs in the
water five minutes; if the watch loses time while the eggs are in the
water, the best cook might be deceived.”
“True, you are right; luckily there are no eggs in a rabbit stew, and it
isn’t cooked by the minute.”
“So you must tell me what you think of it; I will go now and make sure
that your fowl is cooked to a turn.”
Bonneau left the room, carrying his hard boiled eggs, which no one had
touched, and which he proceeded to cut up and place on the salad, so
that they would be paid for twice over; that was a clear gain; and in
order that there might not be any further complaint of their smelling of
the straw, the host took from his sideboard a certain oil, the taste of
which was bound to predominate.
“Well,” said Edouard, as he prepared to serve the ladies, “as we
absolutely must eat rabbit stew, let us see if this one does our host
credit. But what the deuce is there in it? It is a string. Can it be
that the pupil of the Boisseau Fleuri puts whole rabbits into his stew?
This is attached to something, and I don’t see the end of it. Parbleu!
we shall get the pieces that are tied, later. But what is this I see?
Look, mesdames--is it a thigh, or a head? These rabbits are most
peculiarly constructed.”
“Oh! bless my soul!” said Adeline, examining what Edouard had on his
fork, “it’s a cup-and-ball!”
The young woman dropped her fork, laughing like mad; Edouard did the
same, and even Madame Germeuil could not keep a straight face, at sight
of the toy which her son-in-law had found in the stew.
The reader will remember that at the time of the arrival of the
fashionable guests from Paris, everything was in confusion in the
restaurant; the scullion was playing with a cup-and-ball; when his
mistress burned herself and upset the tub of water, Fanfan was alarmed,
and fearing to be scolded by his master and mistress, had thrust his
cup-and-ball into the first saucepan that he saw. It happened to be the
one containing the rabbit stew, into which the scullion had put his toy.
When Master Bonneau took the saucepan later, he covered it without
looking in; then the little fellow had watched and stirred the stew,
without a suspicion of what was in it; he was very far from thinking
that he was cooking his own cup-and-ball.
“Aha!” said the host, “it seems that our friends are satisfied; I was
sure that that rabbit stew would restore their good humor. So much the
better! the result will be that the fowl will pass the more readily. We
must make haste and serve it with the salad. Goton, give me the bottle
of oil. That’s it. Have you put the eggs on yet? on the top of the
salad? Good! that’s very good. This meal will bring us in enough to last
a week.”
Our man returned to the dining-room, where they had made up their minds
to laugh instead of dining. He placed the fowl on the table and stood
silent, with the air of a man who expects a compliment.
“On my word, monsieur le traiteur,” said Edouard, trying to keep a sober
face, “you treat us very strangely! What kind of a thing is a fricassée
of cup-and-ball?”
“What do you mean, monsieur?”
“That we never had such a thing before, Monsieur Bonneau, and that we
don’t like it.”
“But what does it mean?”
“Look, monsieur, is this rabbit?”
Master Bonneau was thunderstruck when he saw the cup-and-ball covered
with gravy.
“Here,” said Adeline, “take away your rabbit stew; what we found in it
has taken away all desire to taste it.”
“Madame, I am really distressed at what I see! But you must realize that
it is not my fault. If rabbits eat cups-and-balls----”
“Ah! this is too much; and if your fowl is no better than the rest, we
shall have to go elsewhere to dine.”
The host left the room, without waiting to hear any more; he rushed back
to the kitchen, crimson with rage, and began to pull Fanfan’s ears, to
teach him to put cups-and-balls in his stews.
“What on earth is the matter, my dear?” Madame Bonneau asked her
husband, as she brought him the plate containing the remedy for burns.
“What’s the matter? What’s the matter? This little scamp is forever
doing foolish things! He stuffs all sorts of trash into my stews; the
other day I found two corks in a chowder; luckily it was for drunkards
who took them for mushrooms; but to-day we have some people who are very
particular, and he is responsible for their not tasting my rabbit stew;
and that too, just at the moment when I carried them that unlucky fowl!
The little scamp is as dirty as if he were employed in some low
cook-shop! Wife, scrape your burn carefully, you still have some potato
on it. Well! I must repair my reputation with the soufflé.”
While Bonneau labored over the soufflé, Edouard was trying to carve the
fowl, and Madame Germeuil seasoned the salad. But in vain did the young
man turn and return the old turkey; it was all dried up, because it had
been on the fire so much, and the knife was powerless to pierce it.
“I must give it up,” said Edouard, pushing the dish away.
“It is impossible to eat this oil,” said Madame Germeuil, who had just
tasted the salad.
“Evidently we shan’t dine to-day,” said Adeline.
“Faith, mesdames,” said Edouard, rising from the table, “I don’t think
it worth while to wait for the potato soufflé, in which we should
undoubtedly find pieces of fish. Put on your shawls and bonnets while I
go and say a word to the restaurant keeper, who really seems to have
intended to make sport of us.”
“But pray don’t lose your temper, my dear! Remember that the wisest way
is to laugh at everything that has happened; is it not, mamma?”
“Yes, my daughter; but still we ought not to pay for such a dinner as
this.”
Edouard left the room and went toward the kitchen. As he was about to
enter the common room, the voice of one of the servants reached his ear;
he heard the word soufflé, and stopped by the glass door, curious to
learn the subject of their discussion; there he overheard the following
conversation:
“I tell you, Marianne, I wouldn’t eat that stuff that our master’s
making now, not even if he would pay me for doing it.”
“Then you’re very hard to suit! That’s a delicacy that he’s making.”
“A pretty kind of delicacy! and it will taste nice!”
“Oh! you mustn’t be so particular as that! If you should see the bread
now, why that’s different! They often have the dough in other places
than in their hands! But it cooks all the same! And the wine! Bless my
soul! An uncle of mine is a wine dresser, and he has boils on his rump,
but that don’t prevent him from getting into the vats as naked as God
made him, and his wine is good, too.”
“You can say whatever you please, Goton, I don’t see wine made nor bread
either; but I did see the potatoes grated on the mistress’s hands, and
she don’t wash them every day; and I say that a cake made with them
wouldn’t take my fancy at all.”
Edouard knew enough; he entered the room abruptly; the two servants were
struck dumb, and allowed him to go on to the kitchen, where he found
Master Bonneau thickening his soufflé with molasses.
Our young man gave the portable oven a kick and sent the entremets into
the garden for the pigeons to eat. The proprietor stared at him with an
air of dismay.
“What is the matter with monsieur? Why is he so angry?”
“Ah! you miserable pothouse keeper! You make soufflé of potatoes that
have been put on your wife’s burned hands!”
“What do you mean, monsieur?”
“You understand me perfectly; you deserve to have me give you a
thrashing.”
“Monsieur, I haven’t an idea----”
“We are going now, but I shall return to this neighborhood; and I shall
remember Master Bonneau, pupil of the Boisseau Fleuri, who supplies
wedding and other parties at the Epée Couronnée.”
With that, Edouard left his host and rejoined the ladies, who were
prepared to leave the dining-room.
“Let us go, mesdames,” said Edouard, “let us leave this house at once!
and consider yourselves fortunate that you did not eat the soufflé.”
“Why, what was the matter with it?”
“I will tell you about it later; the most important thing now is to
leave the house of this infernal poisoner.”
Edouard took Adeline’s hand, Madame Germeuil followed them, and they
were about to leave the inn, when the proprietor ran after them and
stopped them.
“One moment, mesdames and monsieur,” said Master Bonneau, pushing his
cotton cap to the back of his head, “one moment, if you please; it seems
to me that before leaving a restaurant you ought to pay for your
dinner.”
“Our dinner! Parbleu! monsieur le traiteur, you will be decidedly clever
if you prove to us that we have dined!”
“I served all that you ordered, monsieur; if you didn’t eat it, that’s
none of my business!”
“You are laughing at us, Monsieur Bonneau, when you say that you served
all that we ordered; we ordered soft boiled eggs, you gave them to us
hard; we ordered cutlets, you served us a rabbit stew with a
cup-and-ball in it; for wine you gave us vinegar, lamp oil to dress the
salad, a fowl which I would defy an Englishman to carve, and a soufflé
made of--Ah! take my advice, monsieur le traiteur, and don’t be ugly, or
I will have you punished for a dangerous man, and have your restaurant
closed.”
“My restaurant!” said Bonneau, bursting with rage; “indeed! we will see
about that! Pay me at once the amount of this bill, forty francs and
fifteen centimes, or I will take you before the mayor.”
Edouard’s only reply was to take the bill and throw it into the
wine-dealer’s face. Thereupon he made a terrible uproar and the whole
village flocked to the spot.
“These folks from Paris refuse to pay for their dinner,” said the
rabble, always ready to take sides against people from the city; “they
come in a cabriolet, and they haven’t got a sou in their pockets!”
Our young bride and groom laughed at what they heard and made ready to
go before the mayor. Mamma Germeuil followed them into the cabriolet;
all the peasants surrounded Master Bonneau, who marched at their head,
with Fanfan beside him, carrying the famous fowl on a platter, because
Edouard had insisted that it should be submitted to the examination of
experts. The procession passed through the village thus, and on its way
to the mayor’s office, was momentarily increased by the curious folk of
the village, to whom that event was a piece of good fortune.
At last they reached the mayor’s house and requested to speak with him.
“He hasn’t time to listen to you now,” said the servant; “he is just
going to sit down to dinner.”
“But he must judge our dispute,” said Bonneau.
“And he must judge this fowl,” said Edouard with a laugh.
“Oho! there’s a fowl in it, is there?” said the servant; “oh, well! that
makes a difference; I will go and tell monsieur that it is about a fowl,
and that he must attend to it.”
The servant went to her master, and explained the matter so fully that
the mayor, understanding nothing about it, decided at last to leave his
guests for a moment, and to go to his audience room.
In those days, the mayor of the village was not a genius; he had just
had a summer-house built at the foot of his garden; and as he was
delighted with that little building, the idea of which he himself had
conceived, and which he seemed to fear that people would think that he
had seen somewhere else, he had caused to be written over the door:
“This Summer-House was Built Here.”
Profound silence reigned in the assemblage when the mayor appeared.
“Where is the fowl which is the subject of dispute?” he asked gravely.
“Monsieur le maire, it isn’t a fowl simply, it is a dinner that they
refuse to pay me for,” said Master Bonneau, stepping forward.
“A dinner! That’s a matter of some consequence! Did they eat it?”
“No, monsieur,” said Edouard, “and you see in this fowl a specimen of
it.”
“Examine the bill, monsieur le maire, and you will see that it is
perfectly fair.”
“Let us see the bill--fresh eggs----”
“They were hard.”
“Never mind, he who breaks the glasses pays for them; consequently he
who breaks the eggs ought to pay for them.”
“Rabbit stew----”
“We found a cup-and-ball in it.”
“That doesn’t concern the rabbits. Besides, cup-and-ball isn’t capable
of turning the sauce sour.--Let us go on: a capon----”
“Here it is, monsieur le maire; just feel it and smell it.”
The mayor motioned to Fanfan to approach; but the little scullion,
abashed at the sight of so many people, held the plate forward with a
trembling hand, and the fowl rolled on the floor.
The so-called capon made a sound like that of a child’s drum when it
falls to the ground.
“Oho! it seems a little dry,” said the mayor, examining it.
“That’s because it was brought here in the sun,” said Bonneau; “that
burned it just a bit.”
“Pardieu! I have my friend the notary here, who is a connoisseur in
capons, so his wife tells me. I will get him to give me his opinion.”
The mayor opened the door, and called the notary, who was dining with
him, to come and pass judgment on the capon. Edouard and his wife were
beginning to lose patience; they divined from what the judge had already
said to them that they would have to pay the rascally inn-keeper; and
that worthy also anticipated a victory; he stared at them insolently,
then turned with a smile toward the peasants, who were eagerly awaiting
the moment when they could make sport of the fine gentleman and fine
ladies from Paris, which is a great source of enjoyment to peasants.
But the notary appeared; he looked at Edouard and his wife, and
recognized them as the purchasers of Monsieur Renâré’s house; and
instead of looking at the fowl which Bonneau thrust under his nose, he
saluted Murville and his companion most humbly.
“What! do you know monsieur and madame?” asked the mayor in amazement.
“I have that honor; monsieur has bought my neighbor Renâré’s estate, and
pays cash for it. The deeds are being made in my office.”
The notary’s words changed the whole aspect of the affair. The mayor
became extremely polite to Edouard and his wife; he begged them to come
into his salon a moment and rest; and then, turning with a stern
expression toward Master Bonneau, who did not know which way to turn, he
cried angrily:
“You are a scoundrel! You are a knave! You dare to demand payment for a
dinner which was not eaten! You serve dried-up fowls, rotten eggs, and
ask forty francs for them.”
“But, monsieur le maire----”
“Hold your tongue, or I will make you pay a fine; I know that you mix
drugs with your wine, and that you steal all the cats to make rabbit
stew; but take care, Master Bonneau,--you will be held responsible for
the first plump cat that disappears.”
The inn-keeper retired, covered with confusion, and storming under his
breath at the arrival of the notary, who had made the mayor turn about
like a weathercock. He drove Fanfan before him, returned to the inn
with the wretched fowl in his hand, and in order that everyone might
share his ill-humor, he announced that they would have the capon for
supper.