“Your chicken isn’t cooked; you’re not much on cooking!” cried Poufaille, who had not forgiven the insult to his cheese.
“I don’t know how to cook, don’t I?” Suzanne exclaimed; “and I don’t understand salads, either? No, perhaps, hein!”
Socrate, with his nose in his plate, ate like an ogre, disdainful of idle quarrels.
“The salad?” Phil said, to keep up the gaiety. “Your salad has a little too much vinegar.”
“My salad spoiled—oh, insolents! It’s worth while taking trouble to please you!” And Suzanne began weeping, or a pretense of weeping. But, suddenly losing her temper, she seized the frying-pan with a “Tiens! tiens, donc! et aïe donc! This will teach you!” and while chicken and salad flew across the floor, bang! she threw the pan full tilt into the painted guitar. Phil’s picture was rent in twain.
“Oh, forgive me!” Suzanne cried.
All had passed as quick as lightning. Suzanne was at Phil’s knees, weeping, begging pardon—oh! how could she have done it, she who knew all the trouble he had taken? And she kept on repeating in her despair: “Oh, Phil, forgive me!”
Phil said not a word; he was pale as death. Poufaille had fallen backward, and, sitting on his cheese, which had fallen under him, looked in turn at Phil and Suzanne. Socrate was thunderstruck.
“Oh, forgive me, Phil, forgive me!” Suzanne went on repeating.
But she did not finish. To her terror, she saw Phil arise, turn, and fall headlong.