“I don’t know,” sourly rejoins Murdock; “I suppose it can’t be,” he adds, drawing back, as if conscious of having committed himself. “Never mind, now; let’s drop the disagreeable subject. You’ll stay to dinner with us, Father Rogier?”
“If not putting you to inconvenience.”
“Nay; it’s you who’ll be inconvenienced—starved, I should rather say. The butchers about here are not of the most amiable type; and, if I mistake not, our menu for to-day is a very primitive one—bacon and potatoes, with some greens from the old garden.”
“Monsieur Murdock! It’s not the fare, but the fashion, which makes a meal enjoyable. A crust and welcome is to me better cheer than a banquet with a grudging host at the head of the table. Besides, your English bacon is a most estimable dish, and with your succulent cabbages delectable. With a bit of Wye salmon to precede, and a pheasant to follow, it were food to satisfy Lucullus himself.”
“Ah! true,” assents the broken-down gentleman, “with the salmon and pheasant. But where are they? My fishmonger, who is, conjointly also a game-dealer, is at present as much out with me as is the butcher; I suppose, from my being too much in with them—in their books. Still, they have not ceased acquaintance, so far as calling is concerned. That they do with provoking frequency. Even this morning, before I was out of bed, I had the honour of a visit from both the gentlemen. Unfortunately, they brought neither fish nor meat; instead, two sheets of that detestable blue paper, with red lines and rows of figures—an arithmetic not nice to be bothered with at one’s breakfast. So, Père; I am sorry I can’t offer you any salmon; and as for pheasant—you may not be aware, that it is out of season.”
“It’s never out of season, any more than barn-door fowl; especially if a young last year’s coq, that hasn’t been successful in finding a mate.”
“But it’s close time now,” urges the Englishman, stirred by his old instincts of gentleman sportsman.
“Not to those who know how to open it,” returns the Frenchman, with a significant shrug. “And suppose we do that to-day?”
“I don’t understand. Will your Reverence enlighten me?”
“Well, M’sieu; being Whit-Monday, and coming to pay you a visit, I thought you mightn’t be offended by my bringing along with me a little present—for Madame here—that we’re talking of—salmon and pheasant.”