Luckily the closed door muffled Baptiste’s voice to some extent; and, in order that he might be heard even less distinctly, the business agent shouted louder than he:
“All right, Baptiste, all right! You’ll be sorry for this, but I forgive you; I know that you’re faithful, and that’s enough for me.”
Meanwhile Monin had seen his last hope fade away; for it was not to be presumed that the servants would bring more punch to the salon; so he returned to his wife. The guests were discussing the scene in the reception-room, even in the midst of their innocent games; and Madame Monin exclaimed:
“Mon Dieu! if I hadn’t been presenting my little box of amourettes at that moment, I shouldn’t have lost a word of what that Baptiste said. But you were there, Monsieur Monin, and heard everything. What happened?”
“I was watching for the negro to get some punch, Bichette, and it was he who drank it.”
“Who’s he?”
“The black.”
“Who’s the black?”
“The servant in a red jacket.”
“Well?”