“Are you a friend of those people?”
“You know perfectly well that we met them at Monsieur Destival’s. Will you have a pinch, Bichette?”
“Didn’t you notice that the insolent wretch, the pitiful creature, who makes such a ridiculous splurge, turned his back on you without acknowledging your greeting?”
“Perhaps he didn’t see me, Bichette.”
“Not see you! You were right under his nose! You’re a chicken-hearted creature, Monsieur Monin! Those Thomassinières shall pay me for this. Meanwhile, let me see you speaking to that man or his wife, and I’ll take away your snuff-box for a week.”
Monin, terrified by that threat, retreated behind the chair and took three pinches in rapid succession. But Domingo announced again that dinner was served, and they all repaired to the dining-room. Dalville offered his hand to the hostess, a provincial dandy escorted the gorgeous Athalie, the spectacled gentleman went to the three sisters, saying that he would take charge of the Graces, La Thomassinière went out alone, considering doubtless that his own presence was honor enough, Monin walked at a snail’s pace with an old dowager, and Madame Monin alone was left in the salon with Monsieur Bisbis—the little man who shifted from one leg to the other;—he skipped forward to the stout lady in the turban, offered her his right hand, then the left, then the right again, until Madame Monin, out of patience, seized her escort about the waist, as if she were going to dance a waltz, and pulled him into the dining-room.
Dalville occupied one of the places of honor beside the hostess, and on his other side was the young lady who talked so easily. Athalie was between the provincial beau and the gentleman with spectacles; her husband was between an old lady and one of the three sisters. Madame Monin had her escort for her neighbor, and Monsieur Monin found himself seated beside the silly school-girl, who dared not raise her eyes, and to whom he had twice offered snuff when the soup was served.
The dinner was a magnificent affair: three courses, four entrées to each. Monin had no time to visit his snuff-box; he had not gone beyond the anchovies, when the first course disappeared. La Thomassinière found an opportunity to say that the madeira was poor, that the olives were too salt, that the butter was not so good as that made on his country place at Fleury, and that two servants were not enough to serve twenty people. To be sure, he was often obliged to ask twice for a dish, because Domingo never came quickly enough, and Baptiste got confused and lost his head running around the table.
During the second course Baptiste dropped a dish of macaroni on Madame Monin, and Domingo broke a pile of plates because he tried to run. Madame Monin shrieked because her dress of Naples silk was spotted, and Madame Destival tried to pacify her. Monsieur Destival scolded his servants, and Monin dared not fill his glass again because Bichette was in a rage.
Although he drank freely of all the wines, La Thomassinière kept repeating that he had much better ones in his cellar. Destival made wry faces at his wife, who was bright enough to pretend to pay no attention to the parvenu’s absurd talk. Athalie seemed to be bored by the insipid remarks of her neighbors; Madame Monin was apparently attempting the conquest of Monsieur Bisbis, who fidgeted on his chair, uncertain how to eat the charlotte russe, which he finally decided to attack with his fork. Monin longingly eyed the Roman punch, which he feared would never reach him, and he said twice to Baptiste: