“Hey, somebody’s swiped my shoes!” came presently in a voice of complaint.
“Shut up!” said Kendall, going into his friend’s room. “It’s Arlette. I saw her sneaking out with mine when I woke up.”
“Arlette? ... Oh, she’s here, eh? What’s she want with my shoes? I’ve heard these French cooks could—”
But just then Arlette pushed the door open, regardless of the state of her young employers’ toilets, and deposited the shoes on the floor, carefully cleaned and polished.
The boys looked at each other, weighing this event in the light of their experience with American domestics. It was so surprising as to be upsetting.
“Seventy francs a month—including shines,” said Bert.
“And seventy francs is fourteen dollars.”
“And my mother pays her cook twelve a week—and hires another girl to wait on the cook! ... Come to France to solve the domestic-servant problem! ... I wonder if she bathes us.”
They hurried into their clothes and went to the dining-room, where a great pitcher of chocolate stood in the center of the table, flanked by a pot of jam and a basket of rolls. On each plate was a bowl—not a cup. Arlette entered and stood with her stomach against the table’s edge, whence she looked first at the food and then at her employers. She pointed accusingly at the confiture and said, “Abricot!”
“Apricot, eh? Très-bien.”