“Here, monsieur, just smell this,” said the landlord, holding a saucepan under Auguste’s nose. “I won’t tell you, as my confrères in Paris do, that they’re stewed in champagne, but I’ll swear it’s white wine, and delicious.”
“Very good.”
“And a pigeon pie, if you please, delicious also.”
“Some asparagus and lettuce.”
“If monsieur would like a fine omelette soufflée?”
“Ah, yes! I remember very well that you make very good ones.”
“Yes, monsieur; they puff up like a cotton nightcap.”
“Let us have an omelette soufflée then. Give us a private room, please.”
“Take monsieur and madame to the unoccupied room on the first floor.”
A waiter, who was no longer young, but who smiled all the time, escorted the newcomers to a room that looked on the forest.