They drank out of the same cup, ate off the same plate. Ah! but Monsieur Friquet had his wilful moods too at times; he was not the fellow to be satisfied with everything; now it was the bread he refused with a little decided peck that said as plain as words: “I won’t have it!”—now it was the egg, or the salad, or something else. You see, he knew quite well, did Monsieur Friquet, there was a biscuit waiting for him in the cupboard, and he was inordinately fond of biscuit.
Sunday was a special festival.
Up betimes as usual, for workgirls are never lie-abeds, Claire would set to rights the disorder of the week, tripping on tip-toe about the room, not to wake Monsieur Friquet, who was snoring in a corner, a fat ball of feathers, with his head under his wing.
“Monsieur Friquet won’t be awake for another hour,” she would think to herself. “I shall have time enough to set all straight”—and she would set to work, dusting, sweeping, washing the floor, happy in the prospect of the coming Sunday that would release her a while from her chain of servitude.
At last the bird would wake up, and there would be quick cries of: “Good morning, Monsieur Friquet! How have you slept?”
“Chirp! chirp!” would come the answer.
And she would reply—
“Oh! so have I—excellently, thank you.”
Then breakfast would be served at once. He would come to table still half asleep, with heavy eyes, to be scolded and fondled and chided.
“Lazybones! why, it’s close on eight o’clock!”