“I could not take Dodor.”
Toto, the tempter, felt that she had him there, but he was not tempting her in the ordinary acceptation of the word.
“You love Dodor very much?” Her eyes swept round to him, and rested full upon his. “Tell me, Célestin: could you not love me a little too?”
When they got back to the picnic they found the cloth spread, the places laid, and the Perigord pie eaten; they had, in fact, been away over two hours, and the poet had not waited.
There was cold tongue, and part of a fowl and rolls and butter left, all of which Gaillard offered with effusion; he had expected a scolding for beginning without them, but he did not get it. Toto did not care, Célestin did not know; cold tongue or Perigord pie, it did not matter—they were in love. The poet smiled upon them like a father, and piled their plates, and gave them what was left of the champagne.
“Here’s to Églantine!” said Toto, toasting the provider of the feast in a glass of Mumm, from which Célestin had taken a sip. “Has she brown eyes or blue?”
“Blue,” said Gaillard. “Blue as the skies above Pentelicus.”
“Well, tell her what I say, and give me a cigarette.”
“There is only one left,” replied the poet, as he hastily lit it.