Part 30 (1/2)

”I tell you to take them away.”

I do not know whether the tone in which I said this was terrifying, but the waiter took the sweetbreads and disappeared like a flash, closing all the doors behind him. The chicken was before us. I wondered if madame would not be obliging enough to carve it. I placed it in front of her and begged her to be good enough to do so. She pushed it back to the middle of the table and said:

”I will not carve.”

I took up the platter again and handed it to her, saying:

”Madame, you know very well that I am not in the habit of carving.”

”You may do as you choose, monsieur.”

”Do you refuse to carve it, madame?”

”Yes, monsieur.”

”Will you do it--once, twice?”

”No, monsieur.”

”In that case, as it is foolish to make the landlord a present of it----”

I took up the dish and threw the chicken out of the window. My wife involuntarily gave a little shriek. I walked to the window, for I noticed that the violin had stopped. I saw that the little Savoyard had just picked up the chicken, and fearing doubtless that someone would come out to get it, he hastily threw his violin over his shoulder, concealed the bird under his jacket, and ran across the Champs-Elysees as if the devil were at his heels.

At that sight I was unable to keep a sober face; I burst into a roar of laughter, which increased in volume when I saw that the little violinist ran faster than ever on seeing me at the window. Madame was unable to resist the desire to see what had become of the chicken. She saw the little fellow's performance, and bit her lips to avoid laughing; but when I turned toward her, she could hold out no longer; she followed my example.

Nothing restores concord so quickly as laughter; disputes rarely take place between laughter-loving people. We had drawn near to each other, having both left the table to go to the window. I do not know how it happened, but I soon found Eugenie in my arms; then we kissed, we walked away from the window, and----

Once more the door was opened, this time without rattling the k.n.o.b. That waiter was fated to do everything awkwardly; he never guessed right!

Eugenie, red as a cherry, hastily moved away from me, but not so quickly that the waiter, who had seen us close together, did not instantly disappear with the macaroni, muttering:

”Beg pardon! you are not ready. Besides, I don't think the cheese is cooked enough.”

He closed the door. I ran after Eugenie, who murmured:

”Mon Dieu! what will that waiter think?”

I confess that that question worried me very little, and in a few minutes I think that Eugenie forgot it too.

I had to ring to get the macaroni. The waiter came at last; but he hummed and talked to himself upon the landing before touching the k.n.o.b; then he fumbled over it for five minutes. All the time that he was in the room, my wife kept her eyes down and dared not move or speak. She was not used to such occasions.

I ordered the dessert and the champagne. We ended our dinner much more gaily than the beginning of it would have led one to think. I swore to Eugenie twenty times over that I had ceased to see Lucile long before I had married her. She recovered her amiability; she took nothing but biscuit and champagne, but she declared that it was very pleasant to dine in a private room, and I promised her that we would do it again.

The day following that festivity was our moving day. Eugenie and her maid went early to install themselves in our new apartment, where she wished to have the furniture arranged at the outset according to her own taste. I remained at our old apartment to look after the packing and loading; indeed, I was not sorry to remain as long as possible in my former bachelor's quarters.

The people who were hired to move us had promised that everything should be done at four o'clock; at seven I was still there. Finally, the last load drove away, and I was at liberty to do likewise. I walked once more through those bare rooms, which to me were so rich in memories. It was there that I had entertained so many pretty faces. It was there too that I had brought Eugenie as a bride, and that she had made me a father. What a pity to leave a home where we had been so happy! Should I be as happy elsewhere? But it was time to have done with such childish thoughts. One is certain to be happy anywhere with the object of one's affections; my wife was probably impatient at my non-arrival, so I started.

I reached our new home on Boulevard Montmartre, and the maid admitted me. The last furniture had been brought, but nothing was in place; whereas I expected to find the apartment all arranged and all in order.

What on earth had they been doing ever since morning! I asked the maid, who seemed distressed.

”Dear me, monsieur,” she replied, ”I did not know where to put all these things.”