“I’ll tell you, Bichette—it’s that negro——”
“Go away from here, monsieur. They’re going to play la mer agitée and I must be in it.”
“What is agitée, Bichette?”
Seeing that his wife was paying no attention to him, it occurred to Monsieur Monin to lie in ambush at the door of the salon; in that way he hoped to be the first to seize the negro as he passed, and so make sure of some punch. Highly pleased with his scheme, Monin took his stand like a sentinel at the entrance to the salon, stuffing his nose with snuff in order to be more patient. But he waited more than half an hour and Domingo did not appear. Monin ventured to glance into the dining-room. He smelt the punch; that sweet-smelling vapor indicated that the mixture was not all consumed. He crept into the reception room, and, guided by the odor, reached a small door, which stood ajar, and discovered Domingo drinking punch, not from a small glass, but from a large porcelain pitcher. Monin was standing, speechless with surprise, in his corner, when Baptiste appeared from the servants’ quarters with a plate full of biscuits. He pushed the negro aside, tossed off several glasses in quick succession, then dipped his biscuits in the punch and ate them hurriedly, while Domingo, by way of compensation, stuffed macaroons and nutcakes into his jacket pockets.
Monin was wondering whether he should go away, or should ask the servants’ leave to take something, when Monsieur Destival, who had been calling vainly for Domingo and Baptiste in the salon, appeared on the scene and surprised them.
“Ah! you knaves! you scoundrels! I have caught you at it!” he cried, rushing at his servants. Domingo ran from the room, but Baptiste stood his ground, and retorted, undismayed:
“Don’t yell so loud for a little punch! Don’t make such a row! I was very glad to have a drop of it myself; I’ve worked hard enough to-day.”
“What does this mean, villain? You presume to argue! You wretch! eating my biscuit too! rascal! thief!”
“Thief!” retorted Baptiste, glaring at Monsieur Destival with a furious expression; “don’t you dare to insult me—that wouldn’t be good for you! I must be mighty good-natured to stay in your old shanty, where the servants don’t get anything to eat or drink! And what about my wages for two years, that I can’t get hold of a sou of! to say nothing of the money I’ve advanced.”
“All right, Baptiste, hush!” said Monsieur Destival in a lower tone; “that’s enough, I won’t say any more.”