Mrs. Chapel had been ill-tempered and obstructive,
and had made no attempt to disguise her suspicion of the _chef_. The
latter had consequently determined to be as nasty as the circumstances
allowed, had eyed her preparations for dinner with a marked contempt,
and had communed visibly and audibly with himself in a manner which it
was impossible to mistake. Finally he had desired to taste the soup
which she was cooking. Poor as his English was, his meaning was
apparent, but the charwoman had affected an utter inability to
understand what he said. This had so much incensed the Frenchman that
the other servants had intervened and insisted on Mrs. Chapel's
compliance with his request. With an ill grace she snatched the lid from
the saucepan....
Everything was now in train for a frightful explosion. In bitterness the
fuse had been laid, the charge of passion was tamped, the detonator of
spleen was in position. Only a match was necessary....
Camille Francois, however, preferred to employ a torch.
After allowing the fluid to cool, the Frenchman--by this time the
cynosure of sixteen vigilant eyes--introduced a teaspoonful into his
mouth....
The most sanguine member of his audience was hardly expecting him to
commend the beverage.
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