The young man exclaimed:
"'Sdeath, grandfather! Keep quiet! You are carrying on like the devil in a sacristy. You will upset everything."
"I don't care! It will not keep me from telling you why and how it came about that you became a soldier, and how you sold yourself for me—to a merchant of men—"
"All that talk is a pretext to keep you from eating your soup. I see, you think it is not well made."
"Just listen to him! I, find his soup bad! Well, well!" exclaimed the old man in pitiful accents, "That devil of a boy has made up his mind to break my heart!"
Father Morin furiously dipped his spoon into the bowl, and precipitately carrying it to his mouth said while eating: "You see—you see—how bad I find your soup—see-see—Oh! it is bad—see—see—Oh, I don't like it at all!"
"For heaven's sake, now you are going too fast," cried George, holding back his grandfather's arm. "You will choke yourself."
"That's also your fault! To tell me I find your soup bad, while it tastes delicious!" complained the old man, moderating his pace and smacking his lips with great gusto. "It is the gods' own nectar!"
"Without vainglory," replied George, smiling, "I enjoyed a great reputation in the regiment for my leek soup. Good, I shall now fill your pipe."
George then leaned over to the old man and said to him as he patted him on the back: