Fortinbras beamed on him. “You do owe something to me, don’t you?” “A lot,” said Martin. Félise, her face full of affairs of high importance ran into the _salle-à-manger_. “_Mon Oncle_, le Père Didier sends word that he has decided not to kill his calf till next week. What shall we do?” “We’ll eat asparagus,” Bigourdin replied and lumbered out into the November drizzle. Three pairs of wondering eyes sought among themselves a solution of this enigmatic utterance. “_Mais qu’est-ce que cela veut dire?_” cried Félise, with pretty mouth agape. “It means, my child,” said Fortinbras, “that your uncle, with a philosopher’s survey of the destiny of the brute creation, refuses to be moved either to ecstatic happiness or to ignoble anger by the information that the life of the obscure progeny of a bull and a cow has been spared for seven days. For myself I am glad. So is our tender-hearted Martin. So are you. The calf has before him a crowded week of frisky life. Send word to Père Didier that we are delighted to hear of his decision and ask him to crown the calf with flowers and send him along to-day for afternoon tea.” He smiled and waved a dismissing hand. Félise, laughing, kissed him on the forehead and tripped away, having little time to spare for pleasantry. The two men smoked in silence for some time. At last Fortinbras, throwing the butt end of his cigarette into Corinna’s coffee-bowl, rose, stretched himself and yawned heartily. “Having now accomplished my benevolent purpose,” said he, “I shall retire and take some well-earned repose. In the meanwhile, Monsieur Polydore Martin, you had better enter upon your new duties.” So Martin, after he had procured a tray and an apron from the pantry, took off his coat, turned up his shirt-sleeves and set to work to clear away the breakfast things. CHAPTER IX