“Then you’re very hard to suit! That’s a delicacy that he’s making.”
“A pretty kind of delicacy! and it will taste nice!”
“Oh! you mustn’t be so particular as that! If you should see the bread now, why that’s different! They often have the dough in other places than in their hands! But it cooks all the same! And the wine! Bless my soul! An uncle of mine is a wine dresser, and he has boils on his rump, but that don’t prevent him from getting into the vats as naked as God made him, and his wine is good, too.”
“You can say whatever you please, Goton, I don’t see wine made nor bread either; but I did see the potatoes grated on the mistress’s hands, and she don’t wash them every day; and I say that a cake made with them wouldn’t take my fancy at all.”
Edouard knew enough; he entered the room abruptly; the two servants were struck dumb, and allowed him to go on to the kitchen, where he found Master Bonneau thickening his soufflé with molasses.
Our young man gave the portable oven a kick and sent the entremets into the garden for the pigeons to eat. The proprietor stared at him with an air of dismay.
“What is the matter with monsieur? Why is he so angry?”
“Ah! you miserable pothouse keeper! You make soufflé of potatoes that have been put on your wife’s burned hands!”
“What do you mean, monsieur?”
“You understand me perfectly; you deserve to have me give you a thrashing.”