"Yes, monsieur; it's the best, for we haven't got any other."
"It's a little sour," said Ménard, making a wry face.
"We have some white that's sweeter," said Goton.
"Go and get us some of the white, my dear; don't spare anything; you don't have people like us to supper every day."
"No, indeed," said Ménard; "and we will hope that the rabbit stew is made with that understanding."
Dubourg served the stew; but the innkeeper, disturbed by his wife's adventure in the corridor, had allowed it to burn, and Goton, being constantly beset by the four peddlers, had put the onions in too late and had not grated the bacon. Dubourg vainly insisted on declaring that it had a delicious odor; Ménard said nothing, because he dared not contradict monsieur le baron; but his face grew darker with every mouthful.
"What infernal kind of a stew is this?" said Frédéric, pushing away the plate that Dubourg persisted in offering him. "A rabbit that has had nothing to eat but cabbage, raw onions, and rancid lard; and a detestable burned taste, in addition."
"It can't be denied," said Ménard, "that it doesn't come up to what monsieur le baron told us."
"What do you expect, messieurs?" said Dubourg; "a cook must make mistakes sometimes. Errare humanum est; isn't that so, Monsieur Ménard?"
"A cook ought never errare, monsieur le baron."