“That’s it. Give me a spade. Turning up the good soil for the first crops!”
“It will be the first soil turned in Beaucourt. The honour is yours, monsieur.”
“Before God, it is an honour,” said old Durand with sudden solemnity.
So he set to work in Manon’s garden, clearing the rubbish, and starting his trench with all the careful deliberation of the professional gardener. He whistled, he perspired, he took off his waistcoat. Life was good, the simple life that grows out of the soil.
Manon went in to cook the meal. She had brought eggs and butter, and she made an omelette. There was a white cloth on the table, glasses, a bottle of wine, half a loaf of bread, some cheese. When all was ready, she went forth with a saucepan and a spoon and hammered her gong.
“Messieurs, le dîner est servi.”
Old Durand came in with a shining forehead and eyes that laughed.
“What, the hotel is open already!”
He shook hands with Paul.
“You are the very man we want, my friend. I congratulate madame on her partner. I hear you have lived in England?”