With the end of her knife she slipped a piece as large as a nut into the pan, where it melted and spluttered. It was a long time since we had smelled that odor. How good that butter smelled! I was listening to it fizzing when I heard footsteps out in our yard.
Whoever could be coming to disturb us at this hour? A neighbor perhaps to ask for some firewood. I couldn’t think, for just at that moment Mother Barberin put her big wooden spoon into the bowl and was pouring a spoonful of the paste into the pan, and it was not the moment to let one’s thoughts wander. Somebody knocked on the door with a stick, then it was flung open.
“Who’s there?” asked Mother Barberin, without turning round.
A man had come in. By the bright flame which lit him up I could see that he carried a big stick in his hand.
“So, you’re having a feast here, don’t disturb yourselves,” he said roughly.
“Oh, Lord!” cried Mother Barberin, putting the frying pan quickly on the floor, “is it you, Jerome.”
Then, taking me by the arm she dragged me towards the man who had stopped in the doorway.
“Here’s your father.”