And with great dignity, to show exactly to what extent this outrage had offended me, I added:
"It will serve Monsieur right, if I go to complain to Madame directly."
And I made a pretence of starting. Monsieur quickly grasped me by the arm.
"No, no," he stammered.
How did I ever say all that without bursting? How did I ever succeed in burying in my throat the laugh that was ringing there? Really, I don't know.
Monsieur was prodigiously ridiculous. Livid now, with mouth wide open, his whole person bearing a two-fold expression of annoyance and fear, he remained silent, digging into his neck with his nails.
Near us an old pear tree twisted its pyramid of branches, eaten by lichens and mosses. A few pears hung within reach of his hand. A magpie was chattering ironically at the top of a neighboring chestnut tree. Crouching behind the border of box, the cat was pawing at a bumble-bee. The silence was becoming more and more painful for Monsieur. At last, after efforts that were almost sorrowful,—efforts that brought grotesque grimaces to his lips,—Monsieur asked:
"Do you like pears, Célestine?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
I did not disarm; I answered in a tone of lofty indifference.