Martin bowed. “A la vôtre, monsieur!”
“I hope that you and my son will be good friends. It is important that the youth of our two countries, so friendly, so intimately bound, should learn to know and appreciate each other; especially when one of them, like yourself, has the power of translating England into terms of France.”
And with the courteous simplicity of a grey, square-headed, close-cropped marchand de vins en gros, he lifted his glass again.
“A l’Entente Cordiale.”
When Lucien returned to the circle, his father re-introduced him to Martin.
“In fact,” he concluded, “here is an Englishman who not only speaks French like you and me, but eats truffles and talks the idiom of the quarrymen and is qualifying himself to be a good Périgordin.”
It was charmingly said. The company hummed approval.
“C’est bien vrai,” said Bigourdin.
Lucien again bowed. He would do himself the honour of presenting himself at monsieur’s hotel. Monsieur was doubtless staying at the Hôtel des Grottes.
“Monsieur Bigourdin has taken me as a waiter into his service,” replied Martin.