Baptiste went up to the study and called through the door:
“Luncheon is served, monsieur.”
“Very well, very well, I will come down,” replied La Thomassinière, continuing to roll little balls of paper; “I have only one more note to write.”
The valet withdrew and reported the answer that was made to him.
“What a terrible man he is with his notes!” said Madame Destival; “doesn’t he have a moment to himself, even in the country?”
“My husband?” replied the petite-maîtresse; “why, my dear love, he’s a most insufferable creature with his endless writing! He is never ready at meal-time; and even when we have twenty persons to dinner, which happens quite often, I have to send for him three or four times.”
After making balls of paper for another five minutes, Monsieur de la Thomassinière concluded at last to go down to the dining-room.
“I beg pardon, here I am! It wasn’t my fault,” he said as he took his seat; “you shouldn’t have waited for me. You see, I happened to think about a certain speculation I am interested in.—Give me the wing of a chicken and a glass of claret; that is all I take in the morning.—Well, Athalie, have you devastated madame’s flower garden?”
Athalie, who ate quite heartily for a petite-maîtresse, answered with a laugh:
“I have been doing what I chose, monsieur; you know perfectly well that it doesn’t concern you.”