“Well, your reverence,” she answers, laughing, “it’s rather an amusing matter—as you’ll say yourself, when I tell it you.”
“Tell it, pray!”
“It’s all through a cat—our big Tom.”
“Ah, Tom! What jeu d’esprit has he been perpetrating?”
“Not much of a joke, after all; but more the other way. The mischievous creature got into the pantry, and somehow upset a bottle—indeed, broke it to pieces.”
“Chat maudit! But what has that to do with your daughter’s going to the Ferry?”
“Everything. It was a bottle of best French brandy—unfortunately the only one we had in the house. And as they say misfortunes never do come single, it so happened our boy was away after the cows, and nobody else I could spare. So I’ve sent Mary to the Welsh Harp for another. I know your reverence prefers brandy to wine.”
“Madame, your very kind thoughtfulness deserves my warmest thanks. But I’m really sorry at your having taken all this trouble to entertain me. Above all, I regret its having entailed such a disagreeable duty upon your Mademoiselle Marie. Henceforth I shall feel reluctance in setting foot over your threshold.”
“Don’t say that, Father Rogier. Please don’t. Mary didn’t think it disagreeable. I should have been angry with her if she had. On the contrary, it was herself proposed going; as the boy was out of the way, and our girl in the kitchen, busy about supper. But poor it is—I’m sorry to tell you—and will need the drop of Cognac to make it at all palatable.”
“You underrate your menu, madame; if it be anything like what I’ve been accustomed to at your table. Still, I cannot help feeling regret at ma’mselle’s having been sent to the Ferry—the roads in such condition. And so dark, too—she may have a difficulty in finding her way. Which did she go by—the path or the lane? Your own interrogatory to myself—almost verbatim—c’est drôle!”