“Poor M. Cabarus!” she said. “It is a shame so to mock at his ideals. They were not the less fine and sincere because his personality failed to recommend them. It was a great soul, was it not, Felix, in a grotesque setting? But externals ought not to influence us. They mean nothing.”
“Of course not,” I said. “I have known the most abstemious men libelled in their waistcoats.”
She laughed again, with a little protesting “tais-toi”—and the bouille-abaisse was placed before us. I watched her taste that Provençal delicacy, trifle a moment with it, put down her fork and lean back.
“You do not like it?” I asked, grinning.
“I think it is simply horrid,” she said, making a face.
So we had come to Provence for nothing after all. However, for myself, I swallowed my disappointment with relish.
It was towards the end of our meal, when the company was somewhat thinning, that the event occurred. I was conscious of a sudden convulsive pressure of Fifine’s shoulder against mine; looked up—and there was Carabas entering the room. We sat aghast and spellbound, but he did not observe us in our dusk corner. He sat himself down, as usual, at the long table, pulled off his gloves (brown kid gloves, and extensively worn), placed them, with his straw hat, on the chair beside him, examined the menu, looked up from his scrutiny with a full sigh of gratification, and round on his immediate company, self-conscious, challenging, and summoned the waiter with a gesture. That garçon, prompt, deferential, relaid the accessories, swept away contiguous crumbs, retreated, and reappeared—with a dish of veal.
“Bouille-abaisse!” exclaimed Carabas, in a voice that all might hear.
“Ah, pardon, Monsieur,” apologised the waiter. “There is none left.”
“It is on the menu.”