“The beautiful poodle that was so clever is dead, I believe,” remarked Madame Viriot in support of her son. “_Oui, madame_,” replied Félise. However alluring to the young Frenchman about to marry may be timid innocence with downcast eyes, yet, when it is to such a degree monosyllabic, conversation does not sparkle. Martin, accustomed to her tongue wagging charmingly, wondered at her silence. What more attractive companion could she desire than the _beau sabreur_ by her side? And she ate next to nothing. When she was about to decline a _bécasse au fumet_, as to the success of which Euphémie’s heart was beating like a sledge-hammer, he whispered in her ear, “Just a little bit. Do.” And as she helped herself, he saw the colour mount to her neck. He felt quite pleased at having prevailed on her to take nourishment. What happened after the meal in the private salon, where Félise, according to sacred rite, served coffee and liqueurs, Martin did not know. He was too busy with Euphémie and the chambermaid and Baptiste and the _plongeur_ in cleaning up after the banquet. Besides, as the waiter of the establishment, what should he have been doing in that ceremonious gathering? When the work was finished and a concluding orgy on broken meats and half emptied bottles had been temperately concluded, and Euphémie for the hundredth time had been informed of the exact appreciation which each particular dish had received from Monsieur and Madame Viriot—“young people, you see,” she explained, “have their own affairs and they see everything rose-coloured, and you could give them boiled horse-liver and they wouldn’t know the difference between that and _ris-de-veau à l’Impériale_; it doesn’t matter what you put into the stomachs of children; but with old, serious folks, it is very important. I made the stomach of Monsieur Viriot the central idea of my dinner—I have known the stomach of Monsieur Viriot for twenty years—also that of Madame, for old ladies, _voyez-vous_, know more than you think”—and when the weary and zealous servants had gone their separate ways, Martin locked up, and, escaping from the generous atmosphere of the kitchen, entered the dimly lit vestibule with the idea of smoking a quiet cigarette before going to bed. There he found Bigourdin, sprawling his great bulk over the cane-seated couch. “Did things go all right?” he asked. “Wonderfully. Everybody dined well. They can go to the _ban_ and _arrière-ban_ of their friends and relations and say that there is not such a _cuisine_ in Périgord as at the Hôtel des Grottes. And the service was excellent. Not the smallest hitch. I congratulate you and thank you, _mon ami_. But _ouf_!”—he took a great breath of relief—“I am glad it is over. I was not built for the formalities of society. _Ça vous fatigue!_” “It’s also fatiguing from the waiter’s point of view,” laughed Martin.