Auguste bestowed a sweet smile on Madame de la Thomassinière and a rather cold bow on Madame Destival. I do not know whether you can guess the cause, but the ladies had no difficulty.
“Are you just from the village, monsieur?” said the petite-maîtresse, showing her pretty teeth.
“Yes, madame, I have had a most instructive walk; I have acquired some new knowledge, and I hope to make good use of it.”
“Dinner is on the table,” said a thin, yellow little man, with a napkin on his arm. It was Baptiste, the one male servant, who acted as scrubber, cook, footman, errand-boy and butler all at once, pending the time when Monsieur Destival should establish his household on a more extensive scale. So that poor Baptiste was worked to death, and told Julie every day that he did not propose to remain in a place where they made him do the work of a horse.
“Say that dinner is served, Baptiste. That fellow will never be trained!—Come, mesdames, to the table! Ouf! I have well earned it. I have drilled terribly hard to-day.—Here, Monin, here’s your cap. Did you see how I picked it up?”
“You made a hole in it,” said Monin, gazing at the crown with a piteous expression.
“Bah! in the heat of the action; charge, bayonets! one, two! eh, Bertrand?—But the ladies have gone already. Let’s go now and attack the dinner; I expect to make a tremendous breach in it. Go to Julie, Bertrand; she’ll look after you.”
Bertrand betook himself to the servants’ quarters, and Monin, after trying to bring the straws nearer together and conceal the hole in his cap, followed his host to the dining-room.
They were all seated at the table, when Monsieur Destival cried:
“Well! how about Monsieur de la Thomassinière? He’s missing again.”