“What’s the matter? What’s the matter? This little scamp is forever doing foolish things! He stuffs all sorts of trash into my stews; the other day I found two corks in a chowder; luckily it was for drunkards who took them for mushrooms; but to-day we have some people who are very particular, and he is responsible for their not tasting my rabbit stew; and that too, just at the moment when I carried them that unlucky fowl! The little scamp is as dirty as if he were employed in some low cook-shop! Wife, scrape your burn carefully, you still have some potato on it. Well! I must repair my reputation with the soufflé.” While Bonneau labored over the soufflé, Edouard was trying to carve the fowl, and Madame Germeuil seasoned the salad. But in vain did the young man turn and return the old turkey; it was all dried up, because it had been on the fire so much, and the knife was powerless to pierce it. “I must give it up,” said Edouard, pushing the dish away. “It is impossible to eat this oil,” said Madame Germeuil, who had just tasted the salad. “Evidently we shan’t dine to-day,” said Adeline. “Faith, mesdames,” said Edouard, rising from the table, “I don’t think it worth while to wait for the potato soufflé, in which we should undoubtedly find pieces of fish. Put on your shawls and bonnets while I go and say a word to the restaurant keeper, who really seems to have intended to make sport of us.” “But pray don’t lose your temper, my dear! Remember that the wisest way is to laugh at everything that has happened; is it not, mamma?” “Yes, my daughter; but still we ought not to pay for such a dinner as this.” Edouard left the room and went toward the kitchen. As he was about to enter the common room, the voice of one of the servants reached his ear; he heard the word soufflé, and stopped by the glass door, curious to learn the subject of their discussion; there he overheard the following conversation: “I tell you, Marianne, I wouldn’t eat that stuff that our master’s making now, not even if he would pay me for doing it.” “Then you’re very hard to suit! That’s a delicacy that he’s making.” “A pretty kind of delicacy! and it will taste nice!” “Oh! you mustn’t be so particular as that! If you should see the bread now, why that’s different! They often have the dough in other places than in their hands! But it cooks all the same! And the wine! Bless my soul! An uncle of mine is a wine dresser, and he has boils on his rump, but that don’t prevent him from getting into the vats as naked as God made him, and his wine is good, too.” “You can say whatever you please, Goton, I don’t see wine made nor bread either; but I did see the potatoes grated on the mistress’s hands, and she don’t wash them every day; and I say that a cake made with them wouldn’t take my fancy at all.”