The landlord and his wife were eating in another corner, a fat,
slatternly pair, whom no privations of a siege could have
emaciated. The landlord rose. He was dressed as a chef, all in
white, with the sacred cap; but a soiled white. Everything in the
place was untidy, unkempt and more or less unclean, except just
the table upon which champagne was waiting. And yet the restaurant
was agreeable, reassuring. The landlord greeted his customers as
honest friends. His greasy face was honest, and so was the pale,
weary, humorous face of his wife. Chirac saluted her.
"You see," said she, across from the other corner, indicating a
bone on her plate. "This is Diane!"
"Ah! the poor animal!" exclaimed Chirac, sympathetically.
"What would you?" said the landlady. "It cost too dear to feed
her. And she was so mignonne! One could not watch her grow thin!"
"I was saying to my wife," the landlord put in, "how she would
have enjoyed that bone--Diane!" He roared with laughter.
Sophia and the landlady exchanged a curious sad smile at this
pleasantry, which had been re-discovered by the landlord for
perhaps the thousandth time during the siege, but which he
evidently regarded as quite new and original.
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