"A dish of cutlets and a ragoût of partridges with little cabbages. It is now upon the fire, simmering in the casserole—I meant it for next day!"
Like the trout, it had been designed for P. C. Breagh's delectation.
She added:
"And there are a cold ham, a peach tart, and a jelly of Maraschino, and I could toss up a savory omelette to follow the sweet dishes. As for dessert ... we have pears and plums from the garden.... But, Monseigneur..." It was greed that made the woman's strange eyes glitter so intolerably—"I shall be well paid for the excellent food and all my trouble, shall I not, Monseigneur? ... In good French money—not in Prussian notes?"
Under the heavy mustache he showed his sound, even teeth in a laugh of enjoyment.
"In good French money. You have my promise. So—you do not like our Prussian notes?"
White Shawl screamed:
"They are good where they come from, it may be, Monseigneur!... But here—the people would as soon take dead leaves for pay!..."
He thrust his hand in his breeches pocket, pulled out a gold Napoleon, and threw it ringing on the shining table. Her eyes snapped. The little clawlike hand darted from the folds of the enveloping white shawl and pounced on the gold piece. She curtsied like an elder-pith puppet to the great figure sitting at the table head, and with the extraordinary gait that combined a hitch, twist, and shuffle, hobbled out of the room, shrilling as the door closed behind her:
"Jeannette! Jeannette! Monseigneur will dine here! Make you up the kitchen fire! I will go myself to the cellar and get the fruit.... And the wine ... Monseigneur will certainly require some wine! Later on you must help me get ready the bedrooms. Put out sheets and pillow cases to air!"