“It is, in fact, as Monsieur says. But it is not in the kitchen.”
“But this is infamous,” said the visitor, very loud and indignant. “It is here, but it is not there, you say?”
“The demand, Monsieur will comprehend, has been excessive. There is not so much as a spoonful remaining.”
“No demand should discover a good landlord unprepared. It is his business to keep faith with his guests. Tell him to come and explain.”
The landlord came, apologised, expressed a thousand regrets. All propitiation was in vain. The disappointed troubadour fumed, refused, with many venomous “Bahs” and sarcastic “Chahs,” every offer of an alternative plat, expressed his mortification in a growing fury of speech and emphasis, finally snatched up his hat and gloves from the chair beside, and stalked out of the room, followed by the still protesting hôtelier.
And so he disappeared from our lives, never to enter them again. We sat without a word, quiet as mice. Presently I looked at Fifine, my eyes twinkling. She responded, still silent, to the unspoken suggestion, rose, and we went out together.
“Now for the Roman theatre,” I said, in a suppressed voice.
And it was not until we had penetrated into that august ruin, and climbed the tiers of seats, and sat ourselves down on the highest, in commanding view of the mighty proscenium and of the distant slopes of Mont Ventoux, that she permitted herself to give way, and broke into a fit of laughter which presently threatened to become hysterical.
“O—O!” she cried—“his libelled waistcoat! and after all I had said about his ideals!”
“Now, gossip,” said I, putting my arm about her, for we sat there quite alone. “You must be reasonable, if you please.”