“You will be very comfortable here,” said the Frenchman. “I have orders to attend to all your wants.”
“Orders, from whom?” asked Dick abruptly. “After breakfast you will know. I have one letter for you in my pocket.”
With characteristic philosophy Dick accepted the situation. The very mention of breakfast gave a keener edge to an already sharply whetted appetite. Pierre departed and presently returned with a superb sirloin steak sizzling on a hot platter. Under his arm was tucked a bottle of wine. As he set down the latter, Dick noted that it was dusty and cobwebby, as if it had emerged from some ancient cellar.
“Zis is not ze vintage of California,” remarked Pierre, as he drew the cork. “It is rare old Burgundy—all ze way from my beloved France.”
“La belle France,” murmured Dick. “I spent a year there, Pierre, most of the time in Paris.”
“Ah, monsieur knows France and Paris,” exclaimed the old man in great delight. “Zen you speak French, too?”
“Un peu,” laughed Dick. “Mais je fais beaucoup de fautes, mon ami.”
“Non, non, monsieur,” cried Pierre, breaking into voluble French. “Your accent is perfect—it is delightful to hear my native language again. We shall be great friends, Mr. Willoughby. Already I am your devoted servant.” He bowed deferentially, as he held Dick’s chair ready for him to be seated.
“You will breakfast with me, Pierre?” asked Dick, still in his best French.
“No, no. I wait on monsieur. I shall breakfast in good time.”