“I was saying to my wife,” the landlord put in, “how she would have enjoyed that bone—Diane!” He roared with laughter.
Sophia and the landlady exchanged a curious sad smile at this pleasantry, which had been re-discovered by the landlord for perhaps the thousandth time during the siege, but which he evidently regarded as quite new and original.
“Eh, well!” he continued confidentially to Chirac. “I have found for you something very good—half a duck.” And in a still lower tone: “And it will not cost you too dear.”
No attempt to realize more than a modest profit was ever made in that restaurant. It possessed a regular clientele who knew the value of the little money they had, and who knew also how to appreciate sincere and accomplished cookery. The landlord was the chef, and he was always referred to as the chef, even by his wife.
“How did you get that?” Chirac asked.
“Ah!” said the landlord, mysteriously. “I have one of my friends, who comes from Villeneuve St. Georges—refugee, you know. In fine ...” A wave of the fat hands, suggesting that Chirac should not inquire too closely.
“In effect!” Chirac commented. “But it is very chic, that!”
“I believe you that it is chic!” said the landlady, sturdily.
“It is charming,” Sophia murmured politely.
“And then a quite little salad!” said the landlord.