When the work was finished and a concluding orgy on broken meats and half emptied bottles had been temperately concluded, and Euphémie for the hundredth time had been informed of the exact appreciation which each particular dish had received from Monsieur and Madame Viriot—“young people, you see,” she explained, “have their own affairs and they see everything rose-coloured, and you could give them boiled horse-liver and they wouldn’t know the difference between that and ris-de-veau à l’Impériale; it doesn’t matter what you put into the stomachs of children; but with old, serious folks, it is very important. I made the stomach of Monsieur Viriot the central idea of my dinner—I have known the stomach of Monsieur Viriot for twenty years—also that of Madame, for old ladies, voyez-vous, know more than you think”—and when the weary and zealous servants had gone their separate ways, Martin locked up, and, escaping from the generous atmosphere of the kitchen, entered the dimly lit vestibule with the idea of smoking a quiet cigarette before going to bed. There he found Bigourdin, sprawling his great bulk over the cane-seated couch.
“Did things go all right?” he asked.
“Wonderfully. Everybody dined well. They can go to the ban and arrière-ban of their friends and relations and say that there is not such a cuisine in Périgord as at the Hôtel des Grottes. And the service was excellent. Not the smallest hitch. I congratulate you and thank you, mon ami. But ouf!”—he took a great breath of relief—“I am glad it is over. I was not built for the formalities of society. Ça vous fatigue!”
“It’s also fatiguing from the waiter’s point of view,” laughed Martin.
“But it is all necessary when one has a young girl to marry. The father and mother of the young man expect it. It is very complicated. Soon there will be the formal demand in marriage. They will wear gloves—c’est idiot—but what would you have? It is the custom. And then there will be a dinner of ceremony at the Viriots’. He has some Chambertin in his cellar, my old friend Viriot—ah, mon petit Martin!”—he blew a kiss to the purple goddess beloved of Bacchus and by him melted into each cobwebbed bottle—“It is the only thing that reconciles me to it. Truth to say, one dines abominably at the Viriots. If he does not produce some of that Chambertin, I withdraw the dowry of Félise.”
“It’s all arranged then?” Martin asked.
“All what?”
“The marriage.”
“Without doubt.”
“Then Monsieur Lucien has been accepted by Mademoiselle Félise? I mean, he has proposed to her, as we English say?”