“Oh, you wretch!” cried Suzanne.
“Bah! the chicken had to end by being eaten,” Phil said; “let’s not quarrel for that!”
Suzanne made everything ready. She cleared the table of paints and palette, spread the cloth and dishes deftly, and sang as she did the cooking. Poufaille came in, bringing a cheese made of goat’s milk and garlic which he had received that morning from his village.
“He encumbered the room”
“What smells like that? Pouah!” Suzanne cried.
“Do you mean my cheese?” said Poufaille, in a pet.
The time had come. With emotion Suzanne placed the chicken on the table.