He took a handful of pickled onions, which he also stuffed into his coat pocket. Then it was the radishes' turn; as there were a great many of them in the dish, he took out two large handfuls, which went to join the onions and pickles. The only thing left for him to reckon with was the butter; he stopped in front of it and reflected as to how much he could safely put aside; but at that moment the bell rang, and Monsieur Mirotaine had barely time to lick his fingers, with which he had seized the butter.
VI
YOUNG ARTABAN'S GYMNASTICS
The Brid'oison family arrived first of the guests. Monsieur Brid'oison: a tall, gaunt man, with the face of a fox, somewhat softened in outline by frequent use of the juice of the grape; but still austere in manner when he was sober. Madame: a tall, yellow-skinned woman, with a face like an axe, red-eyed, and addicted to long, corkscrew curls which hung down to her shoulders. And, lastly, their son Artaban, eight years of age, with curly hair, a flat nose, a long, pointed chin, hands always black with dirt, and an impudent manner; he constantly walked with his head near the ground and his legs in the air, and made his father's bosom swell with pride by so doing.
"Here we are!" said Monsieur Brid'oison; "we have come early, but I don't like to keep people waiting; there are those who claim that it's good form, but I call it the worst kind of form. How are you, Mirotaine! where are the ladies?"
"Still at their toilet, I presume; women are never done, you know, when they set out to dress."
"Oh! for my part, it don't take me long," said Madame Brid'oison; "five minutes is enough for me."
"Yes, I started my wife right. 'Égilde,' I said to her, 'if you are not dressed in five minutes, I warn you that I won't wait; I'll start without you.'—I tell you, I'm a martinet for being on time!"
"That made me awfully unhappy at first. One day, we were going to dine out; Brid'oison called up to me: 'I'm all ready' and I hadn't put on my garters! I went without 'em, but it bothered me all the time."
"Here's my son Artaban, who's as good a gymnast as Auriol already.—Walk on your head, Artaban, to show what you can do."
The little fellow instantly put his hands on the floor, with his head down and his legs in the air, and made the circuit of the salon in that fashion; but when he put his feet down, he struck the legs of a small table on which the coffee cups had been set out; the shock knocked two of them to the floor, and they were broken. Monsieur Mirotaine made a great outcry: