“Faith, I was in such a hurry that I went into the first place I saw.”
“Well, sit down beside Madame Destival.”
“I’ll soon overtake you, for, you see, I don’t eat beef; it’s poor stuff, is beef! it isn’t worth eating.”
Monsieur de la Thomassinière took his seat, gazing at Auguste with some surprise, because he had given him only a slight nod, and continued to eat without apparently paying any attention to the parvenu, which was a sore trial to that gentleman, who always wanted to make a sensation.
But Dalville had seen on the instant what manner of man Monsieur de la Thomassinière was. Fools enjoy the advantage of being accurately judged in a very short time, whereas it often requires a long time to form a just appreciation of men of sense.
The dinner was lively enough, thanks to Auguste and his neighbor on his left, who talked all manner of nonsense and seemed very much inclined to suit their actions to their words. The mistress of the house ate little, and Monin ate a great deal. Monsieur Destival attacked each dish in measured time, and stuck his fork into a radish as if it were a bayonet. As for Monsieur de la Thomassinière, when he found that Dalville was determined not to take any notice of him, he decided to make himself prominent by holding forth concerning the various dishes. He declared the chicken cooked too much, the peas too large, the salad too sour, and the beaune too new. An exceedingly agreeable guest was Monsieur de la Thomassinière; but a very rich man must never seem content with what is put before him. The idea! that would make people think that he had never eaten anything good.
It was dark when they reached the dessert, because it was late when they sat down. The sky was heavily overcast; the heat became more intense, and the flashes that rent the clouds from time to time indicated an impending storm.
Monsieur Monin made haste to eat his cheese, because his wife was afraid of the thunder, and his orders were to go home to her whenever a storm was brewing. La Thomassinière asked if the house was provided with lightning rods. Monsieur Destival ordered all the windows closed at the first clap of thunder, and the sight of the lightning made him forget to present arms with his glass. As for the petite-maîtresse, she declared that she was terribly afraid of a thunder storm, and she hid her face upon Auguste’s shoulder at every flash.
“The deuce! the deuce! the weather is very threatening!” said Monsieur Destival. “Come, messieurs, a glass of champagne; that will scatter the clouds and make us forget.—Baptiste, have you shut everything tight?”
“Yes, monsieur.”