did from a servant whom he had known as the pattern of[30] decorum for thirty years. But only for a moment. Was it strange, after all, that thirty years of the Rue Clarisse had bred a spirit of revolt in this hitherto obedient husband and submissive servant? [30] Pierre, seeing evidences of yielding on the part of Monsieur, proceeded to clinch the matter. [31]“You see, sir, I found out you were looking at this apartment. If I had told Mademoiselle what I knew about it there’d have been a pretty kettle of fish. I doubt if Monsieur would have got away from the Rue Clarisse alive. But I didn’t. I concluded the Rue Bassano was a very pleasant place to live. I like the lively tunes they play at the music halls across the street, and that theatre round the corner is convenient. But I never should have got away if I had showed how much I wanted to come. When Mademoiselle proposed it to me, I lied like a trooper. I not only lied, but I cried, at the prospect of leaving the Rue Clarisse. That settled it. A woman is like a pig. If you want to drive her to Orleans, you must head her for Strasburg. So here we are, sir, and if we don’t have a livelier time here than we did in the Rue Clarisse it will be Monsieur’s fault, not mine.” [31] Monsieur met this outrageous speech[32] by saying, “You are the most impudent, scandalous, scheming, hypocritical rascal I ever met——” [32] Pierre just then heard sounds in the little lobby which he understood. He ran out and returned with a tray, which he placed on the table, already laid for one. Then, arranging the dishes with a great flourish, he invited Monsieur Bouchard to take his place at the table. Monsieur complied. The first course was oysters—at three francs the dozen. Then there was turtle soup; devilled lobster, duckling à la Bordelaise—both of which were forbidden in the Rue Clarisse, because Monsieur Bouchard at the age of seven had been made ill by them—and a bottle of champagne, a wine that Mademoiselle had always told her brother was poison to every member of his family. But Monsieur Bouchard seemed to forget all about this. He ate and drank these things as if he had forgotten all his painful experiences of forty-five[33] years before and as if he had been brought up on champagne. [33] It was rather pleasant—this first quaff of liberty—having what he liked to eat and
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