Marise put out her hand for the market-bag and spoke with the peremptory decision that was always necessary to unloosen Biron from his temperamental tangles.
"Go right back to your sauce, Biron. I'll have the fish here in five minutes. And have plenty of onion in that sauce. My father thought the last not well-balanced, too much vinegar. He likes his sauces suave."
"But not a sole, Mademoiselle, not a sole! Any sole that is left on the market at six of the evening is left because nobody would buy it. But the dinner was planned for sole!" He stamped his huge, felt-slippered feet in exasperation.
"A mackerel," suggested Marise, "they're good at this time of the year."
He flung his arms over his head. "A mackerel! A gross, fat, dark monster like a mackerel to replace a sole!"
"Oh, no, of course not." Marise saw his point. "I didn't think. Nor salmon, of course."
He shuddered away from the idea of salmon.
They stood staring at each other, thinking hard, the cook's big, parboiled fist clenched on his mouth, his brows knit together, like those of the Penseur.
"Some merlans?" suggested Marise. "You can cook them au gratin just like a sole."
"But will I have time!" he groaned. "Who knows whether the oven is hot enough?"