to reach for next. She reached out greedily in all directions, her eyes darting avaricious glances to and fro; chicken, meat, vegetables, salad, wine disappeared as if by magic, and were replenished, and all the time the poor old woman chuckled craftily to herself and muttered to herself in broken monologue:
“Ah—hah—hah!”—crunch, crunch, crunch! And away went the chicken. “Mon Dieu!—but it’s good!—Ah—hah—hah!” gulp, gulp, gulp! down would go the wine. “Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! Such food! Such wine!—Mais oui! Mais oui!… Un peu encore, s’il vous plaît! Quel bœuf! Quel bœuf!”
At which La Marquise would put down her glass, wipe her mouth, look across the table at the Countess, and say:
“’Ow you like, eh? Good? Mais oui! Il faut manger,” she said coarsely, and applied herself again to knife and fork.
By the time they got down to the cheese—which was a ripe, delicious Brie—La Marquise de Mornaye was at last fortified for conversation. Putting down her empty wine-glass with a deliberate movement, she straightened in her chair, wiped her mouth, sat upright for a moment in an attitude of solid satisfaction, and then, turning to her American guest, said:
“Do you know Patterson T. Jones—eh?’E is an officer—a vat you call it?—a major in ze Américain army.” She pronounced these words with an air of naïve confidence, as if Patterson T. Jones must be a name instantly familiar to every American. When the boy told her, however, that he did not know Major Patterson T. Jones and confessed, further, that he had never heard of him, La Marquise looked slightly astonished and disappointed; and in a moment, her shrewd eyes narrowing slightly as she spoke, she said rather grimly:
“I should like verree verree motch to see zat gentleman again. I should like verree verree motch to know vere he now iss…. Attendez!” she said sharply, as inspiration struck her. “Perhaps if I show you this—vat you say?—his photographie—you will know ze man…. Guillaume!” she raised her voice a little in command. “Apportez-moi les photographies des officiers américains.”
“Oui, madame,” the butler answered, and went swiftly and silently out of the room.
“Yes,” La Marquise continued with an air of grim meditation, “I should verree verree motch like to know vere Major Patterson T. Jones iss to be found.”
