The mother of Antoine, with equal subtlety, gave Manon to understand that the young man realized he would find her more accessible—and of more use to him—now than as a strictly chaperoned ingénue; and would therefore pay his respects to her on his very first leave, if, of course, agreeable to Monsieur Dolph Carew....
And La llorraine twinklingly sanctioned this appointment. Had not Manon skilfully piloted herself into a marriage, at an early age? thereby proving herself far more discreet and competent than any of these English girls, sailing chartless through their late twenties. Manon could be trusted to handle such agreeable little interludes in matrimony as Antoine might provide. “It is only natural zat my child should now vant that good time,” reflected La llorraine, in exact reversal of the argument of Ferdinand Marcus—but virtue before marriage, and a good time after, was Continental fashion.
A small joint of veal appeared on the table. Veal was scarce at this time, and the hostess received as no more than her due the anticipatory smiles of the Comtesse. “But what success,” she murmured. The first slice was carved ... and tragedy fell like a dark mantle upon the scene.
“It is almost raw,” exclaimed Manon, shaping prevalent conviction at last into speech.
“I know it,” said her mother in a tone ominously quiet.
“But what matter!” cried the Comtesse hectically.
La llorraine stood looking down upon the pink flesh among the gravy. She held the carvers in her hands, which suddenly she upraised in denunciation towards the ceiling.
“That woman! That char-r-r! I swear it—we part, she and I—but at once. In this house she shall not eat again. Heart-breaking; unthinkable. I have been good to her.... Ven her fourth durrty baby had ze pebbles—Bah, one does not speak of these trifles! I ask her in return: Prepare me this little loin of veal with care. Let it be just brown ... with stuffing—so!—the stuffing I made with my own hands. My dee-urr, should I be ashamed of it! I who thought to make you pleasure.... You who spoke to me of how difficult to buy veal.... Ah! I remember—and I bring it home zis morning, I smile, I am a little triumphant—why not? it is after all an occasion, that you come to eat here in my poor apartments—I desire to do you honour—And that woman—she spoil it all. She shall fly. Raw meat! My dee-urr, it is an insult to you, my guest....”
The Comtesse strove to calm her, to rally her from ferocious gloom.
“Durr-ling, see—eet is not so bad. I eat some ... wiz pleasure. True that I cannot bear the meat underdone, I shudder at it—but your thought of me was everything. It brings the tears. See, I eat some more of it.... We haf had to put up with moch, by this c-r-ruel war. Sit down then, chère llorraine, and to-day in a week you shall déjeuner with me in my little flat—my chef, Ludovici, shall be specially instructed—he fails me never, Ludovici—so devoted is he. Chérie, you should keep men, rather than these char-rr-women. I say it to you. It is shame to spoil good veal.... But,” after a pause, and with forced sprightly enthusiasm, “how excellent are the potatoes!”