“Get us something to eat,” said Penelope, “that is what we want. Isn’t Patience here to wait on us as usual?”
Patience was one of the immaculate parlour maids.
“No,” said the girl; “Patience has gone on her holiday.”
She withdrew, however, quickly after making this remark, for Mademoiselle’s eyes flashed fire.
“I suffer not these tortures,” she cried, “and the insolence of English domestiques! I return to my own adorable land and partake of the ragoûts so delicate and the bouillon so fragrant and the omelettes so adorable. I turn my back on your cold England. It loves not the stranger—and the stranger loves it not!”
A meal was hastily prepared in another room, and Penelope and the governess went there together.
“What I dread,” said Mademoiselle, “what I consider so triste and execrable—is that I should remain here in this so gloomy climate, far, far from my beloved land, with you—the most ennuyeuse of all my pupils during the time of holiday. I call it shameful! I rebel!”
“Then why do you stay?” said Penelope.
Again Mademoiselle extended her fat hands and arms.
“Would I lose that little character which is to me the breath of existence?” she enquired. “Were Madame to know that I had left you, my triste pupil, all alone during these long days and weeks, would she give me a paper with those essential qualifications written on it which secure for me employment elsewhere?”