“That confounded flash dazzled me. Will your charming wife have some?”
“Yes, I’m very fond of champagne. Please make it foam a lot, monsieur.”
“Here you are, belle dame.—Come, Dalville, drink with madame.”
“That is just what monsieur is doing,” said Madame Destival spitefully.
“And you, Monin, pass your glass.”
“Oh! I was just going to say that I must go; my wife’s afraid of thunder.”
“Why, your wife’s making pickles, you know; she’s busy.”
“But when it thunders she drops everything and crawls under a woolen quilt, and if I shouldn’t go to see how she is—Oh! what a crash! it came very soon after the lightning, so the storm can’t be far away.”
“Suppose we have a little music?” said Monsieur Destival, helping himself to a third glass of champagne, in order to recover his courage; “it seems to me that that wouldn’t be a bad idea. What do you say, Dalville?”
Auguste had stooped to pick up his knife, which he had dropped under the table for the second time.