Madame was most hospitable. She was neither worried nor cross when we asked friends to dine with us. Indeed she was pleased. But she liked due notice so that she could devote proper attention to la cuisine.
M., who was at that time with a cavalry brigade, used to come and spend a night or two with me sometimes. He was a special favourite with Madame and she used to try to load him with food when he was leaving. One very wet day in late autumn, Madame produced a large brown-paper bag and filled it with pears. She presented it to M. with a pretty speech of which he did not understand a word. M. was seriously embarrassed. He liked Madame and did not want to hurt her feelings; but he had before him a railway journey of some hours and then five miles on horseback. It is impossible to carry a brown-paper bag full of pears on a horse through a downpour of rain. The bag gets sopped at once and the pears fall through it. M. pushed the bag back to Madame.
“Merci, merci,” he said. “Mais non, pas possible.”
Madame explained that the pears were deliciously ripe, which was true.
M. said, “À cheval, Madame, je voyage à cheval.”
Madame pushed the bag into his hands. He turned to me.
“For goodness’ sake explain to her—politely, of course—that I can’t take that bag of pears. I’d like to. They’d be a godsend to the mess. But I can’t.”
Madame saw the impossibility in the end; but she stuffed as many pears as she could into his pocket, and he went off bulging unbecomingly.
M. used to complain that he ate too much when he came to stay with me. I confess that our midday meal—we ate it at noon, conforming to the custom of the house—was heavy. And Madame was old-fashioned in her idea of the behaviour proper to a hostess. She insisted on our eating whether we wanted to eat or not, and was vexed if we refused second and even third helpings.