“Ah, pardon,” said Polydore, and with a soiled napkin he erased the offending stain.
“Sacré animal!” repeated Bigourdin, attacking his soup. “I wonder why I keep him.”
“I too,” said Félise.
“If his grandmother and my grandmother had not been foster-sisters——” said Bigourdin, waving an indignant spoon.
“You would have kept him just because he is ugly,” smiled Félise. “You would have found a reason.”
“One of these days I’ll throw him into the river,” Bigourdin declared. “I am patient. I am slow to anger. But when I am roused I am like a lion. Polydore,” said he serenely, as the dilapidated menial removed the plates, “if you can’t keep your hands clean I’ll make you wear gloves.”
“People would laugh at me,” said Polydore.
“So much the better,” said Bigourdin.
The meal was nearly over when the expected guests were announced. Uncle and niece slipped from the dining room into the little vestibule to welcome them. An elderly man in a blouse, name Baptiste, was already busying himself with their luggage—the knapsacks fastened to the back of the bicycles.
“Mademoiselle, Monsieur,” said Bigourdin, “it is a great pleasure to me to meet friends of my excellent brother-in-law. Allow me to present Mademoiselle Félise Fortinbras” (he gave the French pronunciation), “my niece. As dinner is not yet over and as you must be hungry, will you give yourselves the trouble to enter the salle-à-manger.”