She pretended not to understand, but she was trembling.
“What rabbit?”
The brigadier had taken a seat, and was calmly wiping his forehead.
“Come, come, you are not going to try and make us believe that you live on couch grass. What were you eating there all by yourself for your dinner?”
“I? Nothing whatever, I swear to you. A mite of butter on my bread.”
“You are a novice, my good woman. A mite of butter on your bread. You are mistaken; you ought to have said: a mite of butter on the rabbit. By G—, your butter smells good! It is special butter, extra good butter, butter fit for a wedding; certainly, not household butter!”
The gendarme was shaking with laughter, and repeated:
“Not household butter certainly.”
As Brigadier Senateur was a joker, all the gendarmes had grown facetious, and the officer continued:
“Where is your butter?”