"Three covers, M. Olivier, and why?"
"Because I have invited a former comrade to dine with us."
"Bon Dieu!" exclaimed the housekeeper, evidently more terrified than angry, "a guest, and this is not even pot au feu day. We have only an onion soup, a vinaigrette made out of yesterday's beef, and a salad."
"And what more could you possibly want, Mamma Barbançon?" cried Olivier, joyously, for he had not expected to find the larder nearly so well supplied. "An onion soup concocted by you, a vinaigrette and a salad seasoned by you, make a banquet for the gods, and my comrade, Gerald, will dine like a king. Take notice that I do not say like an emperor, Mamma Barbançon."
But this delicate allusion to madame's anti-Bonapartist opinions passed unnoticed. For the moment the worshipper of the departed guardsman was lost in the anxious housewife.
"To think that you couldn't have selected a pot au feu day when it would have been such an easy matter, M. Olivier," she exclaimed, reproachfully.
"It was not I but my comrade who chose the day, Mamma Barbançon."
"But in polite society, M. Olivier, it is a very common thing to say plainly: 'Don't come to-day; come to-morrow. We shall have the pot au feu then.' But, after all, I don't suppose we've got dukes and peers to deal with."
Olivier was strongly tempted to excite the worthy housewife's perturbation to the highest pitch by telling her that it was indeed a duke that was coming to eat her vinaigrette, but scarcely daring to subject Madame Barbançon's culinary self-love to this severe test, he contented himself with saying:
"The mischief is done, Mamma Barbançon, so all I ask is that you will not put me to shame in the presence of an old African comrade."