"What on earth is the woman crying about?" exclaimed the veteran, in despair. "You are crazy, my dear woman! Upon my word of honour, you must be crazy!"
"Kill you! Ah, I shall not forget those words for many a long year, I can tell you."
"Oh, come, come now! I'll eat the—Look, don't you see that I am eating it now?" said the unfortunate commander, hastily swallowing a few spoonfuls. "It is delicious, divine, this custard of yours. Are you satisfied now?"
"Yes, monsieur; yes, that satisfies me," said the housekeeper, drying her tears. "It was a nice custard. I said to myself while I was stirring it, 'I certainly must give my recipe to M. Olivier's little wife.' I must, mustn't I, M. Olivier?"
"Of course you must, Madame Barbançon, for Mlle. Ernestine is going to prove a model housekeeper, I'm sure."
"And the grand pickles I'll teach her to make,—green as grass and crisp as hazelnuts. Oh, you shall see what nice little dishes we will fix up for you, your little wife and I."
Gerald, to whom M. de Maillefort had been obliged to confide the secret of Mlle. de Beaumesnil's masquerade, could not help laughing heartily at the idea of Madame Barbançon giving her cooking recipes to the richest heiress in France.
"What are you laughing at, M. Gerald?" asked the housekeeper. "Have you no confidence in my recipes?"
"I believe in them as I believe in the gospels. I am laughing just because I am so happy, I suppose. That is only natural, I imagine, on one's marriage day."
"There have been monsters who were more ferocious than ever on their marriage day," responded Madame Barbançon, with a gloomy and profoundly mysterious air.