“I say, are we never going to dine? It’s after six; I was very hungry, but you will see that my appetite will have vanished when we sit down at the table.”
“Where is the famous bouquet you were going to present to your father, young hidalgo?” Chambourdin asked the son of the house.
“The bouquet? Oh! don’t mention it, my dear Chambourdin! It was that infernal bouquet that caused the accident to my trousers.”
“Did you undertake to pick the flowers yourself, pray? Have you been flitting about the fields, my little shepherd?”
“No; it’s a long story! There’s a flower girl—who is very pretty—oh! I tell you she’s a beauty!”
“Enough, enough, you scamp! I don’t wish to know any more;—but you may give me the flower girl’s address.”
Madame de Grangeville continued to talk with Madame Glumeau and Mademoiselle Eolinde; but the rest of the guests assumed that morose and surly air which always invades a salon when dinner is delayed too long. Some looked at the ceiling, others walked about the room, concealing their yawns; this one consulted the clock at every instant, another stretched himself out in an easy-chair and tapped the floor impatiently. But at last the door of the salon opened, and a servant appeared and said:
“Madame is served.”
Instantly the scene changed; faces became amiable once more, lips smiled; there was a general movement, a murmur of satisfaction passed about the room, and stout Dufournelle ran to offer his hand to the mistress of the house, eager to escort her to the dining-room. But, while accepting his proffered hand, Madame Glumeau still hesitated; she wondered whether they ought to sit down without her husband.—At that moment he appeared; he walked proudly and quickly; he carried his nose in the air and his foot gracefully arched; he was not the same man who was squirming and making wry faces a short time before. Madame Glumeau drew a long breath and said to herself:
“It seems that it did him good.”