'Shall I bring the beef back again, sir?' asked the cook.
But he answered her with a melancholy shake of his head. 'As well have bread as boiled beef. Oh, my gracious! what a dinner! and just in this bad weather, too, when we can't get any fish.'
Madame Chanteau, who was a very small eater, looked at him compassionately.
'My poor dear,' she said, suddenly, 'you quite distress me. I have brought a little present with me; I meant it for to-morrow, but as there seems to be a famine this evening——'
She had opened her bag as she spoke and drew out of it a pan of foie gras. Chanteau's eyes flashed brightly. Foie gras! Ah, it was forbidden fruit! A luxury which he adored, but which his doctor had absolutely forbidden him to touch.
'You know,' continued his wife, 'you must have only a very little. Don't be foolish, now, or you shall never have any more.'
Chanteau had caught hold of the pan, and he began to open it with trembling hands. There were frequently tremendous struggles between his greediness and his fear of gout; and almost invariably it was his greediness that got the upper hand. Never mind! it was too good to resist, and he would put up with the pain that would follow.
Véronique, who had watched him helping himself to a thick slice, took herself off to the kitchen, grumbling as she went:
'Well, well! how he will bellow to-morrow!'