The Parisian raised his eyebrows, and pursed his lips. “Then I deplore it,” said he. And now he had to endure the hardest trial of all. The stranger’s expression changed to one of wondering scorn.
“Do I understand that monsieur apologizes?”
Garnache felt himself crimsoning; his self-control was slipping from him; the pressure against his shoulder blade was renewed, and in time he became aware of it and knew it for a warning from Rabecque.
“I cannot conceive, sir, that I have offended,” said he at length, keeping a tight hand upon his every instinct—which was to knock this impertinent stranger down. “But if I have, I beg that you will believe that I have done so unwittingly. I had no such intent.”
The stranger removed his hand from the table and drew himself erect.
“So much for that, then,” said he, provokingly contemptuous. “If you will be as amiable in the matter of the supper I shall be glad to terminate an acquaintance which I can see no honour to myself in pursuing.”
This, Garnache felt, was more than he could endure. A spasm of passion crossed his face, another instant and despite Rabecque’s frantic proddings he might have flung the ragout in the gentleman’s face; when suddenly came the landlord unexpectedly to the rescue.
“Monsieur, here comes your supper now,” he announced, as his wife reentered from the kitchen with a laden tray.
For a moment the stranger seemed out of countenance. Then he looked with cold insolence from the dishes set before Garnache to those which were being set for himself.
“Ah,” said he, and his tone was an insult unsurpassable, “perhaps it is to be preferred. This ragout grows cold, I think.”