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?”