The good old woman gave a
contented little nod when she saw that her husband had done things
properly, for the first day at least. The old man answered with a
glance and a shrug of his shoulders, which it was easy to translate
into--
"See the extravagances you force me to commit!"
As soon as Monsieur Hochon had, as it were, slivered the bouilli into
slices, about as thick as the sole of a dancing-shoe, that dish was
replaced by another, containing three pigeons. The wine was of the
country, vintage 1811. On a hint from her grandmother, Adolphine had
decorated each end of the table with a bunch of flowers.
"At Rome as the Romans do," thought the artist, looking at the table,
and beginning to eat,--like a man who had breakfasted at Vierzon, at
six o'clock in the morning, on an execrable cup of coffee. When Joseph
had eaten up all his bread and asked for more, Monsieur Hochon rose,
slowly searched in the pocket of his surtout for a key, unlocked a
cupboard behind him, broke off a section of a twelve-pound loaf,
carefully cut a round of it, then divided the round in two, laid the
pieces on a plate, and passed the plate across the table to the young
painter, with the silence and coolness of an old soldier who says to
himself on the eve of battle, "Well, I can meet death." Joseph took
the half-slice, and fully understood that he was not to ask for any
more. No member of the family was the least surprised at this
extraordinary performance.
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