Wanderfoot Part 21

Vaguely they knew that the price of lamb was high. But suddenly it came into Val's mind how sick the children must be of _raie_, and stewed veal, and that though funds were low the play was nearly finished. They would have a nice English dinner for once. Roast lamb and mint sauce!

She gave Haidee her last _louis_ to change.

"Pick some mint from the cliff-side as you come back," she enjoined.

French peasants have no use for mint in their cooking. Some English visitors had once planted a root of it in _pere_ Duval's garden, but after they were gone he flung it out again on to the cliff-side, where it had increased and multiplied until it was now a large bed.

In the butcher's shop Haidee found a number of villagers squabbling over beef-bones, and not a sign of lamb anywhere. The truth was that every portion of the one lamb killed early in the week had been sold, and though there were still one or two customers in need of First Communion lamb, Mother Durand knew better than to offer any of the freshly-killed beast that hung in the back shed. Peasants are well aware that freshly-killed meat should not be cut too early or it will be full of air, soft, flabby, and never tender. Mother Durand, under her calm exterior, was furiously angry with her man for having delayed the killing until now--after to-day there would be no demand for anything but beef-bones and veal until the summer visitors began to arrive. The young American mademoiselle asking guilelessly for lamb was a G.o.dsend.

Waiting until the last villager had gone from the shop so that there would be no adverse comment on what she meant to do, she turned ingratiatingly to Haidee.

"But certainly, mademoiselle ... there is none in the shop ... but outside I have a lamb that is _superbe_ ... just the thing for a _premiere communion_ ... it is not for every one I would cut that lamb, but for such customers as you and your _belle maman_ there is nothing I would not do." She returned presently from the back shed. "There, mademoiselle--a beautiful shoulder. Six francs."

Haidee was horrified at the price. Their dinner meat usually cost about one franc twenty, and she knew that there was much to be accomplished with Val's last twenty-franc piece.

"Could n't you give me a smaller one, Madame Durand? ... and not so dear?"

"Ah, mademoiselle, you should have said to me before that you wanted it small. It is cut now ... and what would I do with the pieces from it?

Do you think I could sell them? But no."

So Haidee took the shoulder, and returned home with it tucked under her arm. On arrival as it happened old _veuve_ Michel was in the kitchen with Val, having just brought home some odds and ends of family was.h.i.+ng.

"What!" she cried, on seeing the lamb. "A shoulder of freshly-killed lamb, full of air and bubbles ... cut off the poor nice lamb while it had yet the hot life in it! Shame on the wretched woman Durand ... to take advantage thus of poor innocent Americans! ... Shame! But then every one knows how she treated her poor daughter who wanted to be a nun. Madame, the stones in the street are not more wicked than that woman Amelie Durand!"

Val, much disturbed by these sayings, examined the shoulder of mutton.

Certainly it was very bubbly looking: warm too. She remembered now hearing the cook in New York storm over a piece of freshly-killed meat, declaring that it had been cut too soon and was not fit to eat.

"How ought I to cook it to make the best of it?" she inquired in dismay.

"Cook it!" cried Widow Michel, scarlet in the face from indignation combined with the effects of her afternoon bottle of cognac. "No good to cook it. Better to pluck a rock from the cliff-side and cook it."

"How much was it, Haidee?"

"Six francs."

"_Mon Dieu_! What imposition! Take it back, Haidee dear, and tell her that it is too dear and too fresh ... she must give us a pound of steak instead. We are too poor to buy meat we can't eat, you know, darling.

Six francs! Did you pay for it?"

"Why, yes, of course I paid for it. You know I had the _louis_. Oh!

blow Val, I don't care much about taking it back."

"But, Haidee, what's the use of talking like that ... we can't eat that bubbly lamb ... think of poor Brannie without dinner! I 'd go myself if I had any hair.... Tell her it 's ridiculous to have given you such meat. I remember now Hortense said that leg we had at Christmas and could n't eat was too freshly-killed--it was soft and tough at the same time, and all slithery when you tried to cut it. Don't you remember--it made you sick to look at it?"

Yes, Haidee remembered well enough, but she did n't like taking the shoulder back just the same. However, _veuve_ Michel offered the moral support of her company, and she returned to Mother Durand. Half-an-hour later she was back at the Villa, the wretched shoulder of lamb still in her hands.

"She won't take it back. She says it 's a rule of the shop never to take back meat that has once gone out of it."

"But it was back within half-an-hour."

"Yes, I told her so--and you should have heard old _veuve_ Michel going on at her, but she did n't care two sous. She said, 'Oh, yes, mademoiselle, carrying my lamb up and down the Terra.s.se in the hot sun--you think that improves the meat. Hein? Well, I don't think so.

_Dame_, no!"

"Hot sun! I wish it were hot! They don't know what sun is in this odious climate," cried Val in wrath.

"I know--but she won't take it back." Haidee flung the shoulder despondently upon the table. But Val's monkey was up, and she was determined not to be outdone by the cunning little Norman woman. Also it seemed to her by now that if she offered the children that shoulder of lamb she would be offering them poisoned meat. She hated it. She would rather have eaten sea-sand. With trembling hands she arranged across her forehead the _chi-chi_ that M. Poiret had made for her out of her own hair (the first time she had availed herself of it), put on a deep hat, tied a motor veil over all, then with Bran held by one hand and the shoulder of lamb in the other she set out to do battle with Mother Durand. Haidee, though sick of the subject, accompanied the expedition out of curiosity.

The little red-cheeked, hard-eyed woman--a typical shrewd Normandy peasant--was alone in the shop, tidying up her lard-bowls with a large flat knife.

"Madame Durand!" said Val, controlling her voice as best she could.

"About this shoulder of lamb....?"

"Yes, madame! What about it?"

"You must take it back ... I do not care for freshly-killed meat...."

She began to stumble with her French. "Not good for the stomach ....

very hard ... wicked ... no good .... il faut give me back my six francs."

"But not at all, madame ... the meat is good ... _superbe_ ... there is nothing the matter with it. I asked mademoiselle if she was willing I should cut from the freshly-killed lamb, and she said yes.... _Alors?_"

"Oh! How can you say so, Madame Durand?" cried Haidee indignantly. "I had no idea you were cutting it from a lamb all hot."

"Mademoiselle finds it very convenient to say that now ... _tres commode_! But my husband and daughter were in the shop, and heard mademoiselle ask to have it cut from the lamb."

"Oh, Val! don't you believe it ... the old liar!" Haidee did not pick her words when indignant.

"In any case I will not have it back ... you can take it or leave it, madame," the old woman smiled the smile of one who plays a winning game.

"I will leave it then," said Val, losing all calmness. "_Vous est pas juste ... vous est mal honnete ... voleur_! It is because we are strangers that you take advantage of us ...it is the first time I have found such _mechanterie_ in this village.... If you will not give me back my money you can keep it and the meat too!" She flung it down and raged from the shop.

"_Comme wus voudrez, madame_," responded Mother Durand, only too delighted with such a plan, and to see the backs of the departing trio.

But two minutes later, just as she was removing the paper covering from the offending shoulder, Val returned. Stretching her firm, thin hand across the counter she gripped the meat once more.

"No! I won't let you keep it to sell again. Rather will I take it and give it to the first dog I meet!"

"As you please, madame," repeated Mother Durand blandly, not to be nonplussed, whatever might be her feelings.

Val stalked from the shop, the shoulder now devoid of wrappings in her hand. Haidee and Bran, sympathetic but apprehensive, waited without.

"She shall not have it. Find a dog, Haidee."

"Oh, Val! What's the good? ... keep it ... it will be better than nothing for dinner to-morrow."

"I would rather eat mud," said Val, white to the lips. "Find a dog."

But there was no dog in sight. They marched down the road, a silent band, looking to right and left for something canine. Usually the village was thick with hungry mongrels, but to-day it was as though the earth had opened to receive all flesh-eating quadrupeds. Not even a cat showed its face.

"Perhaps a giant"--murmured Bran. Haidee was congratulating herself that they would get home without further adventure, or that at least Val's fury would presently abate enough for her to abandon her idea, when, just in front of the Cafe Rosetta a lean liver-and-white pointer with the legs of a bull dog and the ears of a c.o.c.ker spaniel strolled out. Val held the shoulder towards him.

"Here, boy, here--a good supper for you!"

The "boy" regarded her suspiciously for a moment, then came forward a step. She encouraged him with a kind word, and held the meat nearer, but, suspecting a trick, he backed growling. He had never seen a shoulder of lamb before except in a dream, and did not recognise the pink-and-white thing. He only recognised that they were strangers--probably knew them to be the mad Americans from Villa Duval.

At any rate, after one long sniff he turned and walked sadly away. Val in a fury threw the lamb after him, but he never turned. Mournfully he slunk down the slope of the _pet.i.t port_ to seek the garbage heaps in the river bed. As the three stood staring after him a little red-faced _bonne_ came running out of the cafe.