“You are really too greedy!” she began.  “I myself went into the kitchen—­” However, she left her sentence unfinished:  “No, no, I won’t tell; it isn’t right, is it, mamma?  There’s nothing more—­nothing at all!  I only laughed to cheat you.”

This interlude was re-enacted every Tuesday with the same unvarying success.  Helene was touched by the kindliness with which Monsieur Rambaud lent himself to the fun; she was well aware that, with Provencal frugality, he had long limited his daily fare to an anchovy and half-a-dozen olives.  As for Abbe Jouve, he never knew what he was eating, and his blunders and forgetfulness supplied an inexhaustible fund of amusement.  Jeanne, meditating some prank in this respect, was even now stealthily watching him with her glittering eyes.

“How nice this whiting is!” she said to him, after they had all been served.

“Very nice, my dear,” he answered.  “Bless me, you are right—­it is whiting; I thought it was turbot.”

And then, as every one laughed, he guilelessly asked why.  Rosalie, who had just come into the room again, seemed very much hurt, and burst out: 

“A fine thing indeed!  The priest in my native place knew much better what he was eating.  He could tell the age of the fowl he was carving to a week or so, and didn’t require to go into the kitchen to find out what there was for dinner.  No, the smell was quite sufficient.  Goodness gracious! had I been in the service of a priest like your reverence, I should not know yet even how to turn an omelet.”

The Abbe hastened to excuse himself with an embarrassed air, as though his inability to appreciate the delights of the table was a failing he despaired of curing.  But, as he said, he had too many other things to think about.

“There! that is a leg of mutton!” exclaimed Rosalie, as she placed on the table the joint referred to.

Everybody once more indulged in a peal of laughter, the Abbe Jouve being the first to do so.  He bent forward to look, his little eyes twinkling with glee.

“Yes, certainly,” said he; “it is a leg of mutton.  I think I should have known it.”

Despite this remark, there was something about the Abbe that day which betokened unusual absent-mindedness.  He ate quickly, with the haste of a man who is bored by a long stay at table, and lunches standing when at home.  And, having finished, himself, he would wait the convenience of the others, plunged in deep thought, and simply smiling in reply to the questions put to him.  At every moment he cast on his brother a look in which encouragement and uneasiness were mingled.  Nor did Monsieur Rambaud seen possessed of his wonted tranquillity that evening; but his agitation manifested itself in a craving to talk and fidget on his chair, which seemed rather inconsistent with his quiet disposition.  When the Brussels sprouts had disappeared, there was a delay in the appearance of the dessert, and a spell of silence ensued.  Out of doors the rain was beating down with still greater force, rattling noisily against the house.  The dining-room was rather close, and it suddenly dawned on Helene that there was something strange in the air—­that the two brothers had some worry of which they did not care to speak.  She looked at them anxiously, and at last spoke: