“Voilà!” he said. “I suppose that is what you want for your salad.”
“It is what Jean and I have been trying to get these three months,” answered the priest.
He sat up in bed, and from that difficult position, did the honours of his apartment with an unassailable dignity.
“Sit down,” he said, “and I will tell you a very long story. Not that chair—those are my clothes, my best soutane for this occasion—the other. That is well.”
CHAPTER XXVII. THE ABBÉ'S SALAD.
“He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
That dares not put it to the touch
To gain or lose it all.”
“And mademoiselle's witnesses?” inquired the notary, when he had accommodated the ladies with chairs.
“Will arrive at ten o'clock,” answered Mademoiselle Brun, with a glance at the notary's clock.