II.

One winter’s evening, when the snow lay deep in the streets and the north wind whistled fiercely around the eaves, M. Dupuis’ dining-room looked particularly cheerful. The heavy tapestry curtains were drawn close before the windows, and a flaming wood fire showered sparkles of reflected light on the crystal and silver placed on the round dining-table, and lighted up the portraits of some sober-looking personages in powdered wigs which adorned the walls. The handsome tortoise-shell and copper clock, a masterpiece of the style Louis Quinze, standing on a hanging shelf above the sofa, was, perhaps, the best article of furniture in the room; the chimney-piece was too encumbered with porcelain shepherds and shepherdesses, and china jars filled with artificial flowers and covered with great glass globes, for the taste of the present day. Fashion had slumbered in Saint-Sauveur-le-Vicomte for many a long year. But there was light and warmth, and a pervading feeling of comfort, worth all the gilded, satin-covered chairs and lounges that Parisian taste can devise, all the Venetian mirrors and Sevres vases that luxury can afford. Mme. Dupuis’ dining-room was certainly rococo and provincial, incongruous in some respects, deficient in harmony, but what sincere, cordial hospitality those four walls had witnessed! what pleasant repasts! what real good, wholesome eating! what merry toasts had been drunk there in claret, in sherry, and champagne—wines as bright as Mme. Dupuis’ eyes, and as pure and unadulterated as her heart!

A second clock, a very ugly one it must be confessed, a representative of the bad taste of the First Empire, which stood in the centre of the already too encumbered mantel-shelf, marked five minutes past six, and Mme. Dupuis was seated at the head of her dining-table. She was neatly dressed in black silk; her dark brown hair, streaked here and there with silver threads, was arranged in simple bandeaux on each side of her temples, and a small lace cap trimmed with a few knots of pink ribbon concealed the paucity of the “back hair”; for Mme. Dupuis was behind her time. She had not “marched with her age,” and had not yet learned to wear a “switch.”

M. Dupuis, somewhat old-fashioned in his attire, but scrupulously neat, sat opposite to her. At an equal distance from each was placed a gentleman as old apparently as the ex-notary, but infinitely more pretentious in his style both of dress and manner. His coat and trowsers were of Parisian cut; his beard in the latest mode; his voice dictatorial—a man of the world evidently, and evidently also accustomed to think more of himself than of any one else. The little party was busily engaged in the agreeable duty of eating sundry “plats” which diffused a most appetizing odor. Marianne, madame’s right hand and faithful aid during many long years, waited at table, while the beautiful Angora sought its fortune around and under.

“Well, it happened just as I tell you,” said Mme. Dupuis, as she handed her guest a delicious-looking chop—“it happened just as I tell you, M. Rouvière. I believed that he had gone crazy—completely crazy; get down, puss! He came rushing up-stairs, four steps at a time, crying at the top of his voice, ‘It’s Tom! it’s Tom Rouvière, that fellow Tom!’ Excuse me, M. Rouvière, but that’s his word, you know. As for me, I followed, stumbling as I went along, killing myself trying to make him hear that it was much more likely to be M. du Luc in his new carriage; for I knew through Mme. le Rendu that M. du Luc was to dine to-day at Semonville, and, as he never passes through Saint-Sauveur without stopping to wish us good-day, I had every reason to believe....”

“O my dear Reine!” interrupted M. Dupuis, “what necessity is there for telling all that to Rouvière? He knows nothing about M. du Luc and Mme. le Rendu; how can all that interest him? Besides, you know that M. du Luc never has post-horses to his carriage, so it could not be he.”

“But I believed it was,” replied madame.

“Allons! never mind now, dear,” returned her husband, “but do keep your cat off; she is teasing Rouvière.”

“Puss! puss!” cried Mme. Dupuis, “come here and behave yourself, do. Now, George,” she continued, “you must acknowledge that it was much more natural that I should expect to see M. du Luc, our country neighbor, than M. Rouvière, whom I did not know, and from whom you had never heard for more than thirty years—really, now. What do _you_ say, M. Rouvière? You shall be judge.”

M. Rouvière, who during this dialogue had been silently eating and drinking with evident appetite, looked up from his plate with an expression of impatience anything but flattering to the lady.

“Of course you are right, madame,” replied he sharply; “of course you are right. But, God bless me, madame, I really believe that your chops are fried with crumbs!”

Poor Mme. Dupuis started at this abrupt interpellation; her good-tempered smile vanished; one might have fancied there was a tear in her eye as she answered gently: “I am so sorry! It was I who made Jeannette crumb them. I thought they would be more delicate.”

“What heresy!” exclaimed Rouvière. “My dear lady, nobody now fries chops in crumbs, just as nobody now wears leg-of-mutton sleeves! Gracious heavens! Providence has granted you one of the very best articles of food that the culinary art is acquainted with—real, genuine, _pré-salé_ mutton, pure Miels mutton—and you fry it in crumbs—you actually _dare_ to fry it in crumbs! _Parbleu!_ I have sailed round the world, but I had to come to Saint-Sauveur-le-Vicomte to see Miels mutton fried in crumbs.”

“How sorry I am!” cried poor Mme. Dupuis humbly. “Let me help you to some sole, M. Rouvière. We have a market for fish only once a week, but, as M. Dupuis is very fond of fish, I have made an arrangement with a fisherman from Porthail, so that we have a little extra ‘plat’ every Wednesday, and as, most fortunately, to-day happens to be Wednesday....”

“Oh! come, Reine,” interrupted M. Dupuis, who had been listening with a very vexed expression of countenance to what was passing between his wife and his friend, “don’t go on with all these details; what interest can they have for Rouvière? Well, Tom, tell me, now, where were you eight days ago at this very hour?”

“Eight days’ ago, George,” said Rouvière, and he stopped eating to reflect—“eight days ago I was in Dublin.”

“In Dublin!” exclaimed Dupuis admiringly. “What a fellow!”

“From Dublin,” continued M. Rouvière, “I went to London, and from London to Jersey, and from Jersey—here!”

“And was it when you got to Jersey that the happy thought occurred to you to come and stir up your old friend?” asked Dupuis; and his bright, soft eyes rested affectionately on Rouvière’s face.

“Yesterday morning, my dear boy,” replied Rouvière. “There was a map of Normandy hanging up in the hall of the hotel where I was staying, and I was looking at it almost mechanically, when suddenly I came across the name of Saint-Sauveur-le-Vicomte. ‘Saint Sauveur-le-Vicomte!’ I repeated two or three times to myself. ‘Isn’t that the name of the little town where George Dupuis used to live—my friend George? I’ve a mind to go and dine with him, if he be still alive.’”

M. Rouvière seemed to be looking for something on the table as he finished these words. Mme. Dupuis, watching every feature, anxiously inquired what he wanted.

“Some lemon, madame, for this sole,” replied he. “Marianne—I think I heard you call her Marianne,” he added, turning towards his hostess—“Marianne, haven’t you a lemon?”

“Here is one,” exclaimed Mme. Dupuis, rising hastily and running to the sideboard. “Now tell me, M. Rouvière,” she said with her pleasant smile, as she laid the lemon by his plate, “have you really been going up and down the highways and by-ways of the world during thirty long years, just like the Wandering Jew?”

“I have indeed, madame,” replied her guest, squeezing the lemon-juice out over his sole.

“You must have eaten some strange things in your travels,” continued the lady.

“I rather think so,” replied Rouvière, with his mouth full of fish; “things _you_ never heard of! Marianne, my good girl, I smell coffee roasting in your kitchen. Now, nearly every one, especially here in the provinces, roasts it too much—all the aroma is driven off; run quick, that’s a good lass, and tell the cook—Jeannette, isn’t it?—that the coffee must only be toasted—just scorched. Do you understand, eh?”

“Yes, yes, I understand well enough,” muttered Marianne as she went out; “that fellow seems to like nothing!”

“My dear lady,” went on Rouvière, turning to Mme. Dupuis, “the very accident I feared for your coffee has happened to your chicken—it is cooked too much, or rather it has been cooked too fast. It is a great pity, for it was an excellent fowl!”

“Oh! dear, oh! dear,” exclaimed Mme. Dupuis, who was beginning to feel a kind of despair thus far unknown to her. All her dinners hitherto had been subjects of compliment; _this_ was quite a new experience. “Oh! dear, oh! dear, how many misfortunes at one time. Pray excuse me, M. Rouvière; you came so unexpectedly, you know. We had no time to do things well. But do, pray, stay a few days with us, and you shall see. I promise you that everything shall be better.”

“Impossible, madame,” replied the guest, as he accepted a fine snipe done to a turn; “you are very kind, but at nine o’clock this evening I must be on the road again. Yes, madame, you may well say that I have eaten strange things,” he continued, raising his voice. “I’ve eaten kouskoussou under the Arab’s tent; curry—that incendiary curry—on the shores of the Ganges; I’ve dined off the frightful tripang in Java; and in China on swallows’ nests stewed in castor-oil!”

“Good gracious!” ejaculated Mme. Dupuis.

“What a wonderful fellow!” exclaimed M. Dupuis enthusiastically.

M. Dupuis was unwontedly silent; he was evidently exceedingly annoyed, and it was pitiful to see the deprecating glances his little wife directed towards him from time to time. He, however, kept his eyes fixed steadily on his plate.

“In Panama,” went on Rouvière, “I’ve eaten roasted monkey. But what need to enumerate? There’s nothing edible in creation that I have not swallowed. So that I believe I may say,” here he bowed thanks for a second snipe, “there does not exist a man under the firmament of heaven easier to satisfy than myself. The Rocky Mountain Indians—those Indians are most extraordinarily sagacious—the Rocky Mountain Indians, I say, gave me a surname while I was among them—‘Choc-ugh-tou-saw,’ which signifies good-humored stomach, because I was always satisfied with my dinner!”

“What a wonderful fellow!” reiterated Dupuis. “Come, Tom, try this Burgundy; your throat must be dry. What a wonderful fellow, to be sure!”

“Do let me prevail on you to take another snipe,” said Mme. Dupuis, holding up to the guest’s acceptance a third fine, fat bird; “I’m so glad to find that you like them!”

“No, madame, no, a thousand thanks. Yes, I don’t deny that I am fond of snipes, but, I’m sorry—I can’t deceive you—these are not just what they ought to be. In the first place, they have not been killed long enough; and, secondly, you have forgotten to pepper them—a process absolutely necessary with game. But, excuse me, for the last half-hour I’ve been looking at that covered dish, wondering what there is in it. I really don’t believe that I have ever felt more curiosity in the whole course of my life; excuse me, I must look into it.”

He raised the cover as he spoke, peering in with eyes and nose.

“In the name of all the saints, what is it?” he exclaimed, as he contemplated the contents and sniffed up the steam.

“My dear friend,” answered Dupuis, a little nervously, “it is something I had concocted on purpose for you—it is macaroni.”

“Macaroni! _That_ macaroni!” shouted Rouvière, as if never more surprised in his life.

“Yes, M. Rouvière,” explained Mme. Dupuis, no longer smiling, poor little woman! “This dish was inspired by George’s friendship. He remembered that you were very fond of Italy, so I sent in haste to the grocer’s; he fortunately had still a small quantity of macaroni on hand, and then, with the help of my cookery-book—for Jeannette couldn’t manage it—I made you a _plat à l’italienne_.”

“_A l’italienne!_” repeated George’s old friend with a sneering laugh. “My dear, good lady, that’s not macaroni _à l’italienne_! Oh! no, no. However, who knows?—it may be good to eat all the same. Let us try!” So saying, M. Rouvière helped himself to a spoonful, while his hosts looked on anxiously.

“Well, how do you like it?” asked George, when the taster, after many grimaces, had got down a mouthful.

“Like it!” replied Rouvière, “why, not at all; you might as well try to masticate organ-pipes! It really is something remarkable; it’s fossil macaroni, petrified macaroni! The grocer who sold it to you deserves the jail; _I_ shouldn’t wonder if he belonged to some secret society!”

“Marianne, quick! change M. Rouvière’s plate,” said Dupuis sharply—for the old servant was gazing at her master’s friend with a very unmistakable expression of disgust on her honest face. “My dear Tom,” he continued, “what a bad dinner you have made!”

“You are jesting,” replied Rouvière carelessly; “at all events, your wine is capital.”

“I don’t know what to say,” sighed poor Mme. Dupuis. “I feel ready to die with vexation. But, dear M. Rouvière,” with a pretty supplicatory gesture, “do, I beg and pray of you, do taste my rice-pudding.”

“Very willingly, my dear lady,” answered the terrible guest—“very willingly; only let me first finish eating these green peas, which have been very well preserved, and would be really perfect had the cook spared her butter a little!”

At this moment the church bells began to ring the _Angelus_, and Mme. Dupuis rose precipitately from the table.

“You will pardon my leaving you to finish dinner with George,” said she to Rouvière; “I shall be back long before you go.”

“Surely you are not going out such an evening as this!” exclaimed Rouvière. “Why, there’s a foot deep of snow in the streets!”

“My wife goes to church every evening, winter and summer, at the _Angelus_, no matter what the weather,” remarked George. “She has done so for nearly fifty years, and nothing will break her of the habit now.”

“Ah! very well,” returned Rouvière. “I hope you like your pastor, Mme. Dupuis?”

“Oh! yes, indeed I do,” replied the good little woman enthusiastically; “he is a most worthy man. Do stay twenty-four hours longer with us, M. Rouvière, and I will ask him to dine with us; you will be glad to know him, I am quite sure.”

“So am I,” returned her husband’s old chum, with the little sneering laugh which seemed to be natural to him; “but I must wait for another opportunity.”

“Now, George,” said Mme. Dupuis, as she tied her wadded hood and slipped on the cloak and india-rubber shoes which had been placed ready for her on a chair, “do beg your friend to taste the rice-pudding; and, M. Rouvière, do try my preserves. I make them myself, and I really believe that they are excellent. Good-by for the present!”

“Good-by, madame.”

“Hem! hem!” ejaculated Rouvière as the door closed behind the lady, “so! so! Now let us look at this rice. Your wife’s given to piety, eh, George?”

“Yes, she is a religious woman,” replied George slowly; then added, with some slight eagerness in his manner, “but she never imposes her opinions upon any one. She never teases me, I can assure you, although I do happen to be somewhat lukewarm about church matters. But tell me, Tom”—here M. Dupuis hesitated and appeared embarrassed—“don’t you find her very provincial, very rustic?”

“Oh! no, not at all,” answered Rouvière in a tone which seemed to imply the contrary of his words.

“Yes, you do—I know you do!” cried George passionately. “But what _can_ you expect? It’s not her fault! She has lived in this hole all her life. And your unexpected visit has excited her—upset her. She really talked as if she did not know what she was saying—such nonsense, such silly gossip!”

“Oh! no, not at all,” repeated Rouvière, as he steadily devoured the rice-pudding.

“_Parbleu!_ yes; don’t deny it!” cried Dupuis peevishly. “It made you nervous—I saw it did. It irritated me, I know: it really seemed as if she was trying to show you her defects. It vexed me more, too, because she really has many good qualities—admirable qualities, poor little woman!”

“My dear George,” returned Rouvière, pushing away his plate and coolly wiping his mouth with his napkin, “I don’t doubt it in the least; her rice-pudding is certainly delicious.”

Dupuis at this moment caught sight of the pretty Angora with one soft white paw laid in silent petition on his friend’s knee. His irritation, with difficulty kept under so far, instantly boiled over on the head of the innocent cat. “Get down!” he roared, “get down, you brute! I’ll drown that beast one of these days! Take that animal away,” he continued, turning angrily towards Marianne, who had just brought in the coffee; “if she comes into this room again, I’ll throw her out of the window!”

“Come to me, pussy,” said Marianne in an extra-gentle tone of voice, taking the cat in her arms and kissing it; “these Parisian gentlemen don’t like you, it seems. A regular Turk he is, too, turning the house topsy-turvy,” she muttered as she went out of the room, scowling over her shoulder at the visitor.

Rouvière had risen from the table during this episode, and, tongs in hand, was busy with the bright wood fire. He smiled maliciously when the cat was carried away, and, as if in very lightness of heart, broke forth in song:

“‘_O bell’ alma innamorata! O bell’ alma innamorata!_’ Tell me, George,” he interrupted himself to say, “have you a good theatre here in Saint-Sauveur?”

“A theatre? That’s an idea! Well, yes, we have a theatre once a year, on the fair-day at mid-Lent!”

“That’s too bad!” laughed Rouvière. “How on earth do you contrive to get through your evenings?”

“Well, in winter,” answered George, “we chat by the side of the fire, or my wife and I play at piquet; sometimes two or three neighbors come in, and then we have a game of whist!”

“Phew!” whistled the man of the world. “With the _curé_, I’ll swear,” said he presently with his customary mocking smile, as he planted himself comfortably with his back to the blaze and his coattails gathered up under his arms.

“Yes,” went on George simply, apparently unconscious of his friend’s sneer; “sometimes with the _curé_. And then in summer I water my garden, and Reine and I take a walk on the highroad up to the top of the hill, or in the wood by the river’s side; and then—well, everybody goes to bed early here.”

“Very moral, indeed!” sneered Rouvière again, picking his teeth.

By this time Marianne had cleared away the dinner things, and, after placing a provision of glasses and a bottle of brandy, another of rum, and a case of liqueurs on the table, had finally departed to dine in her turn with Jeannette, and to confide her observations on the obnoxious Parisian to her companion’s sympathizing ear.