The ladies were about to return to the garden and Bertrand to continue his lesson in drilling, when they heard loud laughter in the courtyard, and in a moment Dalville made his appearance.
“Ah! good-day, my dear friend,” said Monsieur Destival, going to meet Auguste, rifle in hand; “we had about given you up. Shoulder arms, eh? Isn’t this about right?”
“I see that Bertrand will make something of you.”
“Here is my wife, who has been in a temper because you didn’t come.”
“Mon Dieu! how my husband does irritate me!” said Madame Destival to her neighbor, assuming a frigid air to welcome Auguste, who said to her:
“What, madame! have you been so kind as to be uneasy because of my non-appearance?”
“I have not said a word of that sort, monsieur. I cannot conceive why Monsieur Destival delights in crediting me with statements the thought of which I do not even entertain. I simply considered that when a person promised to arrive in time for luncheon, it was ridiculous to put in an appearance at the end of the day. However, I am not at all surprised, and—But, bless my soul! what on earth has happened to you, monsieur? What a plight you are in! A wound in the face—clothes all disarranged—It would seem that you have had some thrilling adventure.”
“In truth, madame,” said Auguste, bowing to Athalie, who returned his salutation with a simpering air, “I did have an encounter——”
“Perhaps he met the wolf,” suggested Monin, walking up to Destival; “it seems that there is one in the woods. The peasant woman who sold my wife her cucumbers told her that the other day——”
“Can it be that you have been fighting with a wolf, my gallant Dalville?” cried Destival, presenting his bayonet to the company as if he proposed to charge a hollow square.