In the patriarchal fashion, now unfortunately becoming obsolete, Monsieur Bigourdin dined with his guests. The salle-à-manger—off the loggia—was furnished with the long central table sacred to commercial travellers, and with a few side tables for other visitors. At one of these, in the corner between the service door and the dining-room door, sat Monsieur Bigourdin and his niece. As they entered the room five bagmen, with anticipatory napkins stuck cornerwise in their collars, half rose from their chairs and bowed.
“Bon soir, messieurs,” said Bigourdin, and he passed with Félise to his table.
Euphémie, the cook, fat and damp, entered with the soup tureen, followed by a desperate-looking, crop-headed villain bearing plates. The latter, who viewed half a mile off through a telescope might have passed for an orthodox waiter, appeared, at close quarters, to be raimented in grease and grime. He served the soup; first to the five commercial travellers,—and then to Bigourdin and Félise. On Félise’s plate he left a great thumb-mark. She looked at it with an expression of disgust.
“Regarde, mon oncle.”
Bigourdin alluding to him as a sacred animal, asked what she could expect. He was from Bourdeilles, a place of rocks some five miles distant, condemned by Brantôme, chef-lieu du Canton. He summoned him.
“Polydore.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
“You have made a mistake. You are no longer in the hands of the police.”
“Monsieur veut dire——?”
“I am not the Commissaire who desires to photograph your finger-prints.”