see Monsieur Hochon cutting slices of bread for each
person, he understood, for the first time in his life, Moliere's
Harpagon.

"We should have done better to go to an inn," he said to himself.

The aspect of the dinner confirmed his apprehensions. After a soup whose
watery clearness showed that quantity was more considered than quality,
the bouilli was served, ceremoniously garnished with parsley; the
vegetables, in a dish by themselves, being counted into the items of the
repast. The bouilli held the place of honor in the middle of the table,
accompanied with three other dishes: hard-boiled eggs on sorrel opposite
to the vegetables; then a salad dressed with nut-oil to face little cups
of custard, whose flavoring of burnt oats did service as vanilla, which
it resembles much as coffee made of chiccory resembles mocha. Butter and
radishes, in two plates, were at each end of the table; pickled
gherkins and horse-radish completed the spread, which won Madam Hochon's
approbation. 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. The