“Mon Dieu! what a horrible burn! This is the seventh potato that I have scraped on it.”
“Parbleu! you give me a happy idea: these grated potatoes are all cooked, put ’em aside, wife, and I will make a soufflé for our guests. You, Fanfan, run to the butcher and get some cutlets, and you, Marianne, go and buy some eggs, and come back and pick some lettuce. By the way, light me a candle, as quick as possible, and give me some wax, so that I can put seals on my bottles; that makes people think that the wine is better.”
Everyone set about executing Master Bonneau’s orders, while he lighted his fires and turned up his sleeves with an important air, in order to heat water for the eggs; Goton put the unlucky fowl on the spit, praying heaven that it might be the last time; Marianne brought eggs and went out into the garden to pluck lettuce; and Madame Bonneau grated potato after potato, which she placed upon her burn, and then carefully collected in a plate, as her husband had directed, because a clever cook makes use of everything.
But Fanfan returned from the butcher’s with sad news: “there were no cutlets, because the mayor had bought the last that morning; but if they could wait a while, the shop-boy, who had gone to sharpen his knives, would come back, and they would kill a sheep.”
“The devil! this is mighty unpleasant,” said Master Bonneau, as he put his eggs in the water; “well, I must go and consult with the company.”
The host entered the room where the ladies and the young man were beginning to get impatient for their dinner, while they laughed over the scene which their unexpected arrival had caused.
“Well, are we going to dine?” said Edouard when he caught sight of their host.
“Instantly, monsieur.”
“Your instants are very long, monsieur le traiteur.”
“I came to get your opinion on the cutlets.”