But the clock struck twelve, and Monsieur Dalville did not appear. Madame was annoyed. Julie was posted on the lookout at a window on the second floor, and monsieur wandered from one room to another, exclaiming:
“The devil! my friend Dalville is very late, and he promised to come early, to be here for breakfast.”
“Does Monsieur Auguste ever remember his promises?” asked madame snappishly.
“Oh! there you go again, always finding fault with him, attacking him, making fun of him.”
“I, monsieur? What concern of mine are Monsieur Dalville’s tastes or his failings? When did you ever see me attack him?”
“I know that it’s all in joke; but you are a little bit caustic, my dear Emilie, you like to hurl epigrams. It is true, I admit, that I myself should be very biting, if I didn’t hold myself back; in fact, I often am unconsciously. But after all, Dalville’s a charming fellow—well-born—rich—talented.”
“Talented? Oh! very slightly.”
“I thought that he was strong on the violin?”
“No, monsieur, he often plays false—Well, Julie, do you see anyone coming?”
“Mon Dieu! no, madame, it’s no use to look. And all those cheeses that I bought of Denise! How annoying!”