Seizing a soup plate, she emptied nearly half the contents of the dish into it; then, placing it in front of the astonished commander, said, in tones of authority:
"You—you will eat it, monsieur."
"But listen, Mother Barbançon—"
"It is no use to 'Mother Barbançon' me. This is only the second time in ten years that I have had occasion to make a snow custard. I made this in honour of M. Olivier's and M. Gerald's marriages. There are no 'ifs' and 'buts' about it; you are going to eat it."
The unfortunate veteran, seeing only hostile faces around him,—for Gerald and Olivier, the traitors, pretended to uphold the housekeeper,—attempted a compromise.
"All right. I will eat it to-morrow, Mother Barbançon," he said.
"As if a snow custard would keep until to-morrow!" retorted the housekeeper, shrugging her shoulders. "You're going to eat it now, this minute."
"I won't do anything of the kind," exclaimed the veteran, testily. "I'm not going to kill myself for anybody."
"Kill yourself with a snow custard made by me!" exclaimed the housekeeper, as sadly and reproachfully as if her employer had mortally insulted her. "Ah, me! I little expected—after ten years of faithful service—and on such—such a happy day—the day when M. Olivier is to take a wife—to find myself—treated—like—this."
And the worthy woman began to sob violently.