The farmer’s wife left the window to come down to admit them, and thereupon Sans-Souci informed Jacques that they were at the abode of the unfaithful sweetheart of whom he had spoken that morning, and who was at heart very kind, very sentimental,—she had given him proofs of it that morning,—very obliging, and that she made her husband a cuckold solely because of her temperament.
“But this husband,” said Jacques; “he is the master in his own house, and——”
“No; in the first place, Louise is the mistress; in the second place, he’s a good fellow. Oh! she told me all about it this morning; she wanted me then to pass some time at the farm, as a distant relative of hers, just back from the army. I didn’t accept, because I had promised to join you, and your friendship goes ahead of everything; but so long as you are here, and we are our own masters, faith! it’s a good wind that blows us to my old flame’s house—Hush! here’s the lady herself!”
Louise did in fact open the door at that moment; she seemed surprised at sight of Jacques.
“This is my friend, let me introduce him to you,” said Sans-Souci; “he is a fine fellow, a good comrade, whom I don’t ever mean to leave.”
“Oh, well, then it’s all right, he’s our friend too. By the way, my husband’s asleep, but it don’t make any difference,—don’t forget that you’re my cousin, Sans-Souci.”
“All right, that’s agreed; now let’s be off to the kitchen.”
“I will make you an omelet with pork.”
“That will be fine! But are you alone?”
“Our farm boy’s to be married the day after to-morrow, and bless my soul! he is sleeping all he can beforehand.”