Mother Archambauld frowned, but nevertheless put on the table a big loaf and a pot of wine.
“Now a slice of ham,” said Jack, in a tone of command.
“But the master does not wish any one to touch the ham,” said the old woman, grumbling. In fact, D’Argenton was something of a glutton, and there were always some dainties in the pantry preserved for his especial enjoyment.
“Never mind! bring it out!” said the child, delighted at playing the part of host.
The good woman obeyed reluctantly. The pedler’s appetite was of the most formidable description, and while he supped he told his simple story. His name was Bélisaire, and he was the eldest of a large family, and spent the summer wandering from town to town.—A violent thunder-clap shook the house, the rain fell in torrents, and the noise was terrific. At that moment some one knocked. Jack turned pale. “They have come!” he said with a gasp.
It was D’Argenton who entered, accompanied by Charlotte. They were not to have returned until late, but seeing the approach of the storm, they had given up their plan. They were, however, wet to the skin, and the poet was in a fearful rage with himself and every one else. “A fire in the parlor,” he said, in a tone of command.
But while they were taking off their wraps in the hall; D’Argenton perceived the formidable pile of hats.
“What is that?” he asked. Ah! if Jack could but have sunk a hundred feet under ground with his stranger guest and the littered table! The poet entered the room, looked about, and understood everything. The child stammered a word or two of apology, but the other did not listen.
“Come here, Charlotte. Master Jack receives his friends to-day, it seems.”
“O, Jack! Jack!” cried the mother in a horrified tone of reproach.