Her mistress uttered a piercing cry when she felt the burn; she jumped back and overturned the tub; the little scullion, in his fright, concealed his cup-and-ball in a saucepan, and the ladies recoiled, in order not to walk in soap-suds, with which the floor was flooded. The host confounded himself in apologies, trying at the same time to pacify his wife. “A thousand pardons, mesdames and monsieur; pray walk in.--Hush, wife! it won’t amount to anything; I do much worse things to myself every day.--We have everything that you can possibly desire, mesdames; the kitchen is well stocked.--It was that idiot of a Goton, who never looks to see what she is doing. Put some potato on it, wife.--But step in, mesdames, and select a bedroom or a private dining-room, whichever you please.” The ladies were in no hurry to enter, because they did not want to wet their feet. At last one of the maids brought a long board, which they used as a bridge to pass into another room; they made the passage, laughing heartily, and looked forward to much enjoyment at an inn where their arrival had already caused such a sensation. “Well, monsieur le traiteur, what can you give us?” Murville asked the cook, who followed them, boasting of his talent in serving a dinner promptly. “Why, monsieur, I can give you a rabbit stew which will please you.” “Parbleu! Rabbit stew is never missing in these places! But we don’t care much for it; have you any cutlets?” “Yes, monsieur, I can easily get some.” “And a fowl?” “I have one which should be excellent.” “Fresh eggs?” “Oh! as to eggs, I don’t have any but fresh ones.” “Well, that is all that we want; with lettuce and some of your best wine we shall dine very well, shall we not, mesdames?” “Yes, but don’t keep us waiting, for we are positively starving.” “Never fear, mesdames, it will take but a moment.” Master Bonneau returned to his staff. “Look alive,” he said, tying his handkerchief around his waist, which he only did on great occasions; “look alive, wife and girls, we have swells to feed, and we have nothing except the regulation rabbit stew, which unfortunately they don’t want, and that infernal fowl which I roasted a week ago for a Jew who ate nothing but fresh pork, and which I haven’t been able to do anything with since; I hope that it is going to be eaten at last. Goton, put it on the spit again; that will be the fifth time, I believe; but never mind, I will make a gravy with the juice of that beef _à la mode_, and it will be delicious.” “Mon Dieu! what a horrible burn! This is the seventh potato that I have scraped on it.”