“This is a hysterical attack,” said La Thomassinière; “madame must be taken to her room. They always last two or three hours, at least.”
“Well, well! that’s very nice!” said Mère Thomas.
The hostess was taken to her room, and she vowed to herself that she would not leave it so long as Madame Thomas should be in the house.
However, for most of the guests the dinner was the most essential thing, and Madame de la Thomassinière had no sooner been taken from the dining-room than they all resumed their places at the table, with such remarks as: “It won’t amount to anything; it isn’t dangerous.” All of which meant: “We have paid enough attention to the hostess, who thought it best to faint; now let’s think of our stomachs, and not neglect any longer the delicious dishes that have been prepared for us.”
La Thomassinière would gladly have followed his wife; but he realized that it would be discourteous to leave his guests, with whom he had already changed his tone. So he returned to his seat, cudgelling his brain to devise a method of imposing silence on his dear mother. Destival, meanwhile, fearing that Madame Thomas might be spirited away, offered her his hand to escort her to her seat by the marquis. Mère Thomas accepted his hand with a: “Thank ‘ee, my man,” and planted herself on a chair beside Monsieur de Cligneval.
“Now, my spark, I don’t need your hand no more,” she said to her escort; “when it comes to forks and teeth, I can go it alone, friend.”
“She is overflowing with wit!” cried the marquis; “really, her repartees are delicious!”
La Thomassinière, who was afraid to raise his eyes, tried to hurry the dinner. But his guests did not support him; they were very comfortable at table and did full honor to the feast. The marquis stuffed Mère Thomas; he kept her plate constantly filled, hoping that that would stop her chatter; but she was a shrewd old girl, who could do two things at once. While she was eating, she kept repeating:
“Dieu! how good this is! What a fine fricot! I ain’t never ate anything as tasted like this! I say, Thomas, my boy, we don’t make such good fricassees to our little cabaret at the sign of the Learned Ass! Do you remember, boy?”
“Who wants some truffles? who hasn’t any truffles?” cried Monsieur de la Thomassinière, trying to drown his mother’s voice. But Madame Destival, who had heard every word, inquired: