Into the Restaurant Weber comes an old bon-vivant growling. He stands for a brief moment surveying the tables, chooses one of the few unoccupied ones and plants himself savagely in front of the snow-white cloth. “The devil!” he mutters to himself. “She’ll get my letter to-morrow. Bon Dieu! to think I have been imbecile enough to trust her!”
“Has monsieur le comte ordered?” interrupted quietly the maître d’hôtel Léon.
The count glowers over the menu.
“Some filets de hareng saurs.”
“Parfaitement, monsieur,” replies Léon, and he repeats the order to a waiter.
There follows a pause, during which the count’s irate eye (the one not occupied with his monocle) wanders absently over the list.
“Perhaps monsieur would like an excellent purée of peas to follow?” Léon naïvely suggests.
“Bon!” gruffly accepts the comte. “And a homard, and a roast partridge with a good salad, and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, ’93,” adds the count.
“Bien, monsieur, I will season the salad myself.” And Léon, with an authoritative gesture, claps his hands twice, stirring into increased activity the already alert waiters, gives a final touch to the appointments of the count’s table, and hurries off to attend to another dinner, a jolly party of four who need no further cheering up.
