M. Dupuis, somewhat old-fashioned in his attire, but scrupulously neat, sat opposite to her. At an equal distance from each was placed a gentleman as old apparently as the ex-notary, but infinitely more pretentious in his style both of dress and manner. His coat and trowsers were of Parisian cut; his beard in the latest mode; his voice dictatorial—a man of the world evidently, and evidently also accustomed to think more of himself than of any one else. The little party was busily engaged in the agreeable duty of eating sundry “plats” which diffused a most appetizing odor. Marianne, madame’s right hand and faithful aid during many long years, waited at table, while the beautiful Angora sought its fortune around and under.
“Well, it happened just as I tell you,” said Mme. Dupuis, as she handed her guest a delicious-looking chop—“it happened just as I tell you, M. Rouvière. I believed that he had gone crazy—completely crazy; get down, puss! He came rushing up-stairs, four steps at a time, crying at the top of his voice, ‘It’s Tom! it’s Tom Rouvière, that fellow Tom!’ Excuse me, M. Rouvière, but that’s his word, you know. As for me, I followed, stumbling as I went along, killing myself trying to make him hear that it was much more likely to be M. du Luc in his new carriage; for I knew through Mme. le Rendu that M. du Luc was to dine to-day at Semonville, and, as he never passes through Saint-Sauveur without stopping to wish us good-day, I had every reason to believe....”
“O my dear Reine!” interrupted M. Dupuis, “what necessity is there for telling all that to Rouvière? He knows nothing about M. du Luc and Mme. le Rendu; how can all that interest him? Besides, you know that M. du Luc never has post-horses to his carriage, so it could not be he.”
“But I believed it was,” replied madame.
“Allons! never mind now, dear,” returned her husband, “but do keep your cat off; she is teasing Rouvière.”
“Puss! puss!” cried Mme. Dupuis, “come here and behave yourself, do. Now, George,” she continued, “you must acknowledge that it was much more natural that I should expect to see M. du Luc, our country neighbor, than M. Rouvière, whom I did not know, and from whom you had never heard for more than thirty years—really, now. What do you say, M. Rouvière? You shall be judge.”
M. Rouvière, who during this dialogue had been silently eating and drinking with evident appetite, looked up from his plate with an expression of impatience anything but flattering to the lady.
“Of course you are right, madame,” replied he sharply; “of course you are right. But, God bless me, madame, I really believe that your chops are fried with crumbs!”
Poor Mme. Dupuis started at this abrupt interpellation; her good-tempered smile vanished; one might have fancied there was a tear in her eye as she answered gently: “I am so sorry! It was I who made Jeannette crumb them. I thought they would be more delicate.”
“What heresy!” exclaimed Rouvière. “My dear lady, nobody now fries chops in crumbs, just as nobody now wears leg-of-mutton sleeves! Gracious heavens! Providence has granted you one of the very best articles of food that the culinary art is acquainted with—real, genuine, pré-salé mutton, pure Miels mutton—and you fry it in crumbs—you actually dare to fry it in crumbs! Parbleu! I have sailed round the world, but I had to come to Saint-Sauveur-le-Vicomte to see Miels mutton fried in crumbs.”