At the brutal exclamation of his father, Frederick betrayed his indignation by an abrupt movement.
Immediately Marie, pressing her son's hand under the table, signified her disapproval, and he restrained himself, but his quick resentment did not escape the eye of Jacques, who, after looking a long time at his son in silence, said to Bridou:
"Come, my comrade, we must content ourselves with this slop."
"It is pot luck, my old fellow," said the bailiff. "Pot luck, eh, eh, we all know that."
"Come," said Jacques, "let us at least say our grace before eating."
And he poured out a bumper for Bridou, after which he emptied almost the rest of the bottle in an enormous glass, which he was accustomed to use, and which held a pint.
The obese Hercules swallowed this bumper at one draught, then, disposing himself comfortably to serve the soup, he took in his hand an iron spoon, plated over, and bright with cleanliness.
"Why in the devil did you put this pot ladle here?" said he to Marie.
"Monsieur, I do not know," replied the young woman, looking down and stammering, "I—"
"Why not put on the table my large silver ladle, as usual," asked Jacques. "Is it because my comrade Bridou has come to dine here?"