Daily she doled out to Madame Potier the small sum necessary for housekeeping. Under the able management of the hectic little woman, a very little money went a long way. Such butter, such cheese of Brie, such excellent bread, milk and cream, such country chickens, such fruit, and vegetables from the garden, were daily set upon the table, that a honeymooning Prince and Princess could not have been better served. The reward of Madame Potier was to see her handiwork vanish under the combined onslaughts of Madame Charles and Monsieur.... She waited upon them at table, and joined in their conversation, after the inconvenient habit of her simple kind.
As, still after the habit of her kind, she conceived an affection for her young mistress, she developed cunning of a wholly lovable sort. The first time she heard her idol laugh, she clapped her hands with rapture. Another day, in pursuance of a stratagem she had elaborated, she placed upon the dinner table a dish, with the blatant boast:
"My poor Potier used to declare by all that is sacred that no living woman could cook ragoût of veal except his wife!"
She whipped off the cover. Madame Charles helped Monsieur in silence, and unwittingly P. C. Breagh played into Madame Potier's hands. For he sniffed approval, and said, as she set his sizzling hot plate before him:
"M. Potier was quite right! If the woman lives who can cook a better ragoût, I've never met her, Madame!"
Juliette's eyes sent forth blue sparks as she sat erect at the head of the table. Her sloping shoulders sloped terribly, her upper lip was preternaturally long. She helped herself to a very little of the dish before her, and began to eat without perceptible enthusiasm. Madame Potier stood back and watched her, her red hands on the hips that were embraced by her apron of blue stuff. She said:
"Madame Charles will perhaps have forgotten the menus she used to prepare for Madame Tessier and M. le Colonel." She crossed herself at the mention of the dead man's name.
Juliette's blue eyes filled, and the stiffness went out of her. She laid down her knife and fork. P. C. Breagh scowled savage reproof at Madame Potier. But Madame, at first overwhelmed, recovered herself. She went on, as though she had never broken off:
"Menus composed of excellent—but excellent dishes!... What a pity to think that Madame Charles cannot make them now!—Look you, to cook well is an art that may be easily forgotten!... Hey, Madame is not eating to-day!"
Madame said in accents that were dignified and frigid: