“Parbleu! yes; don’t deny it!” cried Dupuis peevishly. “It made you nervous—I saw it did. It irritated me, I know: it really seemed as if she was trying to show you her defects. It vexed me more, too, because she really has many good qualities—admirable qualities, poor little woman!”
“My dear George,” returned Rouvière, pushing away his plate and coolly wiping his mouth with his napkin, “I don’t doubt it in the least; her rice-pudding is certainly delicious.”
Dupuis at this moment caught sight of the pretty Angora with one soft white paw laid in silent petition on his friend’s knee. His irritation, with difficulty kept under so far, instantly boiled over on the head of the innocent cat. “Get down!” he roared, “get down, you brute! I’ll drown that beast one of these days! Take that animal away,” he continued, turning angrily towards Marianne, who had just brought in the coffee; “if she comes into this room again, I’ll throw her out of the window!”
“Come to me, pussy,” said Marianne in an extra-gentle tone of voice, taking the cat in her arms and kissing it; “these Parisian gentlemen don’t like you, it seems. A regular Turk he is, too, turning the house topsy-turvy,” she muttered as she went out of the room, scowling over her shoulder at the visitor.
Rouvière had risen from the table during this episode, and, tongs in hand, was busy with the bright wood fire. He smiled maliciously when the cat was carried away, and, as if in very lightness of heart, broke forth in song:
“‘O bell’ alma innamorata! O bell’ alma innamorata!’ Tell me, George,” he interrupted himself to say, “have you a good theatre here in Saint-Sauveur?”
“A theatre? That’s an idea! Well, yes, we have a theatre once a year, on the fair-day at mid-Lent!”
“That’s too bad!” laughed Rouvière. “How on earth do you contrive to get through your evenings?”
“Well, in winter,” answered George, “we chat by the side of the fire, or my wife and I play at piquet; sometimes two or three neighbors come in, and then we have a game of whist!”
“Phew!” whistled the man of the world. “With the curé, I’ll swear,” said he presently with his customary mocking smile, as he planted himself comfortably with his back to the blaze and his coattails gathered up under his arms.