Madame—(dreamily stirring the paste with the spoon, her little finger in the air)—I should never have believed that it was so nasty.
Monsieur—You will soon see for yourself, taste it, taste it.
Madame—I am in no hurry, I have plenty of time.
Monsieur—To see what it is like. Taste a little, come.
Madame—(pushing away the plate with a look of horror)—Oh! how you worry me. Be quiet, do; for a trifle I could hate you. It is disgusting, this paste of yours!
CHAPTER XXII
FAMILY LIFE
It was the evening of the 15th of February. It was dreadfully cold. The snow drove against the windows and the wind whistled furiously under the doors. My two aunts, seated at a table in one corner of the drawing- room, gave vent from time to time to deep sighs, and, wriggling in their armchairs, kept casting uneasy glances toward the bedroom door. One of them had taken from a little leather bag placed on the table her blessed rosary and was repeating her prayers, while her sister was reading a volume of Voltaire's correspondence which she held at a distance from her eyes, her lips moving as she perused it.
For my own part, I was striding up and down the room, gnawing my moustache, a bad habit I have never been able to get rid of, and halting from time to time in front of Dr. C., an old friend of mine, who was quietly reading the paper in the most comfortable of the armchairs. I dared not disturb him, so absorbed did he seem in what he was reading, but in my heart I was furious to see him so quiet when I myself was so agitated.
Suddenly he tossed the paper on to the couch and, passing his hand across his bald and shining head, said: