She turned around, revealing a startled countenance.
“What’s your name,” I continued.
She stiffened, as she answered:
“Mlle. Raymonde Mairieux, Monsieur.”
She had taught me a lesson; what right had I to address her so familiarly? But I did not understand at first, and having caught only her first name I answered:
“Raymonde? And I am Raymond.”
I burst out into a stupid laugh at a coincidence that was sufficiently trivial. My laughter completed her fear, my laughter and my goatskin motor coat as well, which gave me the appearance of some shaggy animal.
She hurried back to hide herself in the lodge, as a hunted hare seeks its form. I followed her, opened the door without ringing, entered a hall and then a room which I found to be the kitchen. There I breathed the appetising odour of a dish of potatoes au-gratin, which gave promise of being delicious. It was not far from noon and I was very hungry. In fashionable restaurants one cannot get true potatoes au-gratin. This particular dish made my nostrils dilate with desire. I leaned over it. I inhaled the odour with avidity. Nothing in the world would have induced me to leave without tasting it. Already a threatening cook, emerging from the pantry, was shrieking aloud at the sight of a wild animal in her kitchen. She shook a soup ladle in her hand, crying out at the thief.
I tried in vain to reassure her.
“No, no! My Heavens, I will pay you what you want,” I said.