He had bought some lard--a little lump for fourteen
sous--and some one was frying. He had also acquired some green peas
in tins, four tins. Mesnil Andre's tin of veal in jelly would
be a hors-d'oeuvre.
"And not a dirty thing in all the lot!" said Lamuse, enchanted.
* * * * * *
We inspected the kitchen. Barque was moving cheerfully about the
iron Dutch oven whose hot and steaming bulk furnished all one side
of the room.
"I've added a stewpan on the quiet for the soup," he whispered to
me. Lifting the lid of the stove--"Fire isn't too hot. It's half an
hour since I chucked the meat in, and the water's clean yet."
A minute later we heard some one arguing with the hostess. This
extra stove was the matter in dispute. There was no more room left
for her on her stove. They had told her they would only need a
casserole, and she had believed them. If she had known they were
going to make trouble she would not have let the room to them.
Barque, the good fellow, replied jokingly, and succeeded in soothing
the monster.
One by one the others arrived. They winked and rubbed their hands
together, full of toothsome anticipation, like the guests at a
wedding-breakfast. As they break away from the dazzling light
outside and penetrate this cube of darkness, they are blinded, and
stand like bewildered owls for several minutes.
"It's not too brilliant in here," says Mesnil Joseph. "Come, old
chap, what do you want?" The others exclaim in chorus, "We're damned
well off here.
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