by Alexandre Dumas (Pere)
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"Monsieur Pailletin, if you please, my good woman," replied Andrea.
"A retired baker?" asked the fruiteress.
"Exactly."
"He lives at the end of the yard, on the left, on the third story." Andrea went as she directed him, and on the third floor he found a hare's paw, which, by the hasty ringing of the bell, it was evident he pulled with considerable ill–temper. A moment after Caderousse's face appeared at the grating in the door. "Ah, you are punctual," said he, as he drew back the door.
"Confound you and your punctuality!" said Andrea, throwing himself into a chair in a manner which implied that he would rather have flung it at the head of his host.
"Come, come, my little fellow, don't be angry. See, I have thought about you—look at the good breakfast we are going to have; nothing but what you are fond of." Andrea, indeed, inhaled the scent of something cooking which was not unwelcome to him, hungry as he was; it was that mixture of fat and garlic peculiar to provincial kitchens of an inferior order, added to that of dried fish, and above all, the pungent smell of musk and cloves. These odors escaped from two deep dishes which were covered and placed on a stove, and from a copper pan placed in an old iron pot. In an adjoining room Andrea saw also a tolerably clean table prepared for two, two bottles of wine sealed, the one with green, the other with yellow, a supply of brandy in a decanter, and a measure of fruit in a cabbage–leaf, cleverly arranged on an earthenware plate.
"What do you think of it, my little fellow?" said Caderousse. "Ay, that smells good! You know I used to be a famous cook; do you recollect how you used to lick your fingers? You were among the first who tasted any of my dishes, and I think you relished them tolerably." While speaking, Caderousse went on peeling a fresh supply of onions.
"But," said Andrea, ill–temperedly, "by my faith, if it was only to breakfast with you, that you disturbed me, I wish the devil had taken you!"
"My boy," said Caderousse sententiously, "one can talk while eating. And then, you ungrateful being, you are not pleased to see an old friend? I am weeping with joy." He was truly crying, but it would have been difficult to say whether joy or the onions produced the greatest effect on the lachrymal glands of the old inn–keeper of the Pont–du–Gard. "Hold your tongue, hypocrite," said Andrea; "you love me!"
"Yes, I do, or may the devil take me. I know it is a weakness," said Caderousse, "but it overpowers me."
"And yet it has not prevented your sending for me to play me some trick."
"Come," said Caderousse, wiping his large knife on his apron, "if I did not like you, do you think I should endure the wretched life you lead me? Think for a moment. You have your servant's clothes on—you therefore keep a servant; I have none, and am obliged to prepare my own meals. You abuse my cookery because you dine at the table d'hote of the Hotel des Princes, or the Cafe de Paris. Well, I too could keep a servant; I too could have a tilbury; I too could dine where I like; but why do I not? Because I would not annoy my little Benedetto. Come, just acknowledge that I could, eh?" This address was accompanied by a look which was by no means difficult to understand. "Well," said Andrea, "admitting your love, why do you want me to breakfast with you?"
"That I may have the pleasure of seeing you, my little fellow."
"What is the use of seeing me after we have made all our arrangements?"
"Eh, dear friend," said Caderousse, "are wills ever made without codicils? But you first came to breakfast, did you not? Well, sit down, and let us begin with these pilchards, and this fresh butter; which I have put on some vine–leaves to please you, wicked one. Ah, yes; you look at my room, my four straw chairs, my images, three francs each. But what do you expect? This is not the Hotel des Princes."
"Come, you are growing discontented, you are no longer happy; you, who only wish to live like a retired baker." Caderousse sighed. "Well, what have you to say? you have seen your dream realized."
"I can still say it is a dream; a retired baker, my poor Benedetto, is rich—he has an annuity."
"Well, you have an annuity."
"I have?"
