GERMINAL
in as a child and brought up in the house, now acted as housemaid. Besides these two women, the only other servant was the coachman, Francis, who undertook the heavy work. A gardener and his wife were occupied with the vegetables, the fruit, the flowers and the poultry-yard. And as service here was patriarchal, this little world lived together, like one large family, on very good terms.
Madame Grégoire, who had planned this surprise of the brioche in bed, waited to see the dough put in the oven. The kitchen was very large, and one guessed it was the most important room in the house by its extreme cleanliness and by the arsenal of saucepans, utensils, and pots which filled it. Provisions abounded, hanging from hooks or in cupboards.
“And let it be well gilt, won’t you?” Madame Grégoire said, as she passed into the dining-room.
In spite of the hot-air stove which warmed the whole house, a coal-fire enlivened this room. In other respects it exhibited no luxury: a large table, chairs, a mahogany sideboard; only two deep easy-chairs betrayed a love of comfort, long happy hours of digestion. They never went into the drawing-room, they remained here in a family circle.
Just then M. Grégoire came back, dressed in a thick fustian jacket; he also was ruddy for his sixty years, with large, good-natured, honest features beneath the snow of his curly hair. He had seen the coachman and the gardener; there had been no damage of importance, nothing but a fallen chimney-pot. Every morning he liked to give a glance round Piolaine, which was not large enough to cause him anxiety, and from which he derived all the happiness of ownership.
“And Cécile?” he asked, “isn’t she up yet then?”
“I can’t make it out,” replied his wife. “I thought I heard her moving.”
The table was set; there were three cups on the white cloth: They sent Honorine to see what had become of mademoiselle. But she came back immediately, restraining her laughter, stifling her voice, as if she had been talking aloud in the room above.
“Oh! if monsieur and madame could see mademoiselle! She sleeps; oh! she sleeps like an angel. One can’t imagine it! It's a pleasure to look at her.”
[65]
