“The deuce!” said Edouard in an undertone, “this doesn’t indicate a very well-heated oven! However, in war we must do as soldiers do!”
“Yes, my dear; besides, appetite is a very good cook.”
At sight of two fashionably-dressed ladies, escorted by a fine gentleman, and of a cabriolet in front of the door, everybody in the restaurant was up in arms. The proprietor threw razor and shaving-mug aside; he partly wiped his face, and came forward, half shaved, to meet the newcomers, to whom he made repeated bows. His wife hastily dropped her knitting and rolled it up, as she made a curtsy, and placed it on a table on which the girls were ironing; whereupon Goton, one of the servants, who then had in her hand a very hot iron, looked up to examine the fine ladies who were coming in, and placed the iron on her mistress’s hand, thinking that she was ironing an apron.
Her mistress uttered a piercing cry when she felt the burn; she jumped back and overturned the tub; the little scullion, in his fright, concealed his cup-and-ball in a saucepan, and the ladies recoiled, in order not to walk in soap-suds, with which the floor was flooded.
The host confounded himself in apologies, trying at the same time to pacify his wife.
“A thousand pardons, mesdames and monsieur; pray walk in.—Hush, wife! it won’t amount to anything; I do much worse things to myself every day.—We have everything that you can possibly desire, mesdames; the kitchen is well stocked.—It was that idiot of a Goton, who never looks to see what she is doing. Put some potato on it, wife.—But step in, mesdames, and select a bedroom or a private dining-room, whichever you please.”
The ladies were in no hurry to enter, because they did not want to wet their feet. At last one of the maids brought a long board, which they used as a bridge to pass into another room; they made the passage, laughing heartily, and looked forward to much enjoyment at an inn where their arrival had already caused such a sensation.
“Well, monsieur le traiteur, what can you give us?” Murville asked the cook, who followed them, boasting of his talent in serving a dinner promptly.
“Why, monsieur, I can give you a rabbit stew which will please you.”
“Parbleu! Rabbit stew is never missing in these places! But we don’t care much for it; have you any cutlets?”