(AFTER A-N-LD B-N-ETT)
In the dining-room of her little apartment, from the windows of which
one might catch a glimpse of the Place de la Révolution on a clear day,
Madame Lafarge was laying the table for supper. She had folded the
table-cloth in two. With outstretched arms she held the four ends of the
beautifully laundered piece of napery between the thumb and
middle-finger of either hand. Suddenly she released two of the corners
of the white cloth, transferring her grip with practised deftness to the
two other corners, and whipped the flapping sheet across the table with
a confident gesture that emphasised the vigour of her ample bosom. The
further end of the cloth wrinkled. Perfect mistress of herself, Madame
Lafarge walked around the table and patted the offending creases into
an unblemished surface. She was extremely proud of her finger-nails,
upon which she spent fifteen minutes twice a day.
From the china-closet at one end of the room, Madame Lafarge brought
forth two plates, which she placed on the table at either end of a
perfect diameter. This diameter she bisected with four salt and pepper
casters of cut-glass topped with silver elaborately chased in the
bourgeois style. While arranging the spoons she happened to look at the
clock and noticed that it was a quarter past five. M. Lafarge would be
leaving his shop behind the Palais Royal in half an hour. He would stop
at the tobacconist's for his semi-weekly bag of fine-cut Maryland and
would probably call at the cobbler's for Madame's second best shoes
which she was having resoled for the third time; they would last out the
winter. That would bring her husband home within an hour. In another
half hour it would be time to put the cutlets on the fire. As she walked
into the kitchen she wondered whether there was quite enough flour in
the sauce. A heavy sauce made M. Lafarge toss about in bed.
Outside, on the Place, they were guillotining Marie Antoinette....