“Why not?” returned the old lady, “I think it would please him.” And then, seeing that he was looking at them wonderingly, she went toward him, saying:
“M. Boinville, you have already been so kind to us that I am going to ask of you another favor. It is late, and you have a long way to go—we should be so glad if you would stay here and taste our tôt-fait—should we not, Claudette?”
“Certainly,” said the girl, “but M. Boinville will have a plain dinner, and besides, he is, no doubt, expected at home.”
“No one is waiting for me,” answered the gentleman, thinking of his usual dull, solitary meals in the restaurant. “I have no engagement, but—” he hesitated, looked at Claudette’s smiling eyes, and suddenly exclaimed:—
“I accept, with pleasure.”
“That is right!” said the old lady, briskly. “What did I tell you, Claudette? Quick, my pet, set the table and run for the wine, while I go back to my tôt-fait.”
The girl had already opened the press and taken out a striped table-cloth and three napkins, and in the twinkling of an eye the table was ready. Then she lighted a candle and went down stairs to fetch the wine, while the old dame sat down with her lap full of chestnuts, which she proceeded to crack and place upon the stove.
“Is not that a bright, lively girl?” she said, “she is my consolation; she cheers me like a linnet on an old roof.”
Here the speaker rattled the chestnuts on the stove, and then Claudette reappeared, a little flushed and out of breath, and the old woman went and brought in the potée and set it steaming and fragrant on the table.
Seated between the cheery octogenarian and the artless, smiling girl, and in the midst of half-rural surroundings which constantly recalled the memory of his youth, Hubert Boinville, the deputy governor, did honor to the potée. His grave, cold manner thawed out rapidly and he conversed familiarly with his new friends, returning the gay sallies of Claudette and shouting with merriment at the sound of the patois words and phrases which the old lady used.