“You don’t believe me because Mademoiselle Jeanne laughs so,” said she. “Ah, very well! believe what you like. Stint yourself, and see if you won’t have a craving for food when you get home.”
When the maid had left the room, Jeanne, laughing yet more loudly, was seized with a longing to speak out.
“You are really too greedy!” she began. “I myself went into the kitchen—” However, she left her sentence unfinished: “No, no, I won’t tell; it isn’t right, is it, mamma? There’s nothing more—nothing at all! I only laughed to cheat you.”
This interlude was re-enacted every Tuesday with the same unvarying success. Hélène was touched by the kindliness with which Monsieur Rambaud lent himself to the fun; she was well aware that, with Provencal frugality, he had long limited his daily fare to an anchovy and half-a-dozen olives. As for Abbé Jouve, he never knew what he was eating, and his blunders and forgetfulness supplied an inexhaustible fund of amusement. Jeanne, meditating some prank in this respect, was even now stealthily watching him with her glittering eyes.
“How nice this whiting is!” she said to him, after they had all been served.
“Very nice, my dear,” he answered. “Bless me, you are right—it is whiting; I thought it was turbot.”
And then, as every one laughed, he guilelessly asked why. Rosalie, who had just come into the room again, seemed very much hurt, and burst out:
“A fine thing indeed! The priest in my native place knew much better what he was eating. He could tell the age of the fowl he was carving to a week or so, and didn’t require to go into the kitchen to find out what there was for dinner. No, the smell was quite sufficient. Goodness gracious! had I been in the service of a priest like your reverence, I should not know yet even how to turn an omelet.”
The Abbé hastened to excuse himself with an embarrassed air, as though his inability to appreciate the delights of the table was a failing he despaired of curing. But, as he said, he had too many other things to think about.
“There! that is a leg of mutton!” exclaimed Rosalie, as she placed on the table the joint referred to.
Everybody once more indulged in a peal of laughter, the Abbé Jouve being the first to do so. He bent forward to look, his little eyes twinkling with glee.