“Are you fond of dogs, mademoiselle?” asked Lucien, valiant in small talk.
“Oui, monsieur,” replied Félise.
“Have you any now, mademoiselle?”
“Non, monsieur,” replied Félise.
“The beautiful poodle that was so clever is dead, I believe,” remarked Madame Viriot in support of her son.
“Oui, madame,” replied Félise.
However alluring to the young Frenchman about to marry may be timid innocence with downcast eyes, yet, when it is to such a degree monosyllabic, conversation does not sparkle. Martin, accustomed to her tongue wagging charmingly, wondered at her silence. What more attractive companion could she desire than the beau sabreur by her side? And she ate next to nothing. When she was about to decline a bécasse au fumet, as to the success of which Euphémie’s heart was beating like a sledge-hammer, he whispered in her ear,
“Just a little bit. Do.”
And as she helped herself, he saw the colour mount to her neck. He felt quite pleased at having prevailed on her to take nourishment.
What happened after the meal in the private salon, where Félise, according to sacred rite, served coffee and liqueurs, Martin did not know. He was too busy with Euphémie and the chambermaid and Baptiste and the plongeur in cleaning up after the banquet. Besides, as the waiter of the establishment, what should he have been doing in that ceremonious gathering?