“No’um.” Dimple smelled it, and Madame felt the sample of meal and rolled a pinch or two between her fingers. It was lumpy, musty and old.
“She got Susan out dah helpin’ her,” insinuated Dimple, “an’ Sam an’ Dan’el; all helpin’ her.”
“Bon Dieu! It won’t be a grain of sugar left, a bar of soap – nothing! nothing! Go watch, Dimple. Don’t stan’ there like a stick.”
“She ‘low she gwine sen’ Susan back to wuk in de fiel’,” went on Dimple, heedless of her mistress’ admonition. “She ‘low Susan don’ know how to cook. Susan say she willin’ to go back, her. An’ Miss Bosey, she ax Dan’el ef he know a fus’-class cook, w’at kin brile chicken an’ steak an’ make good soup, an’ waffles, an’ rolls, an fricassee, an’ dessert, an’ custud, an sich.”
She passed her tongue over a slobbering lip. “Dan’el say his wife Mandy done cook fo’ de pa’tic’lest people in town, but she don’ wuk cheap ‘nough fo’ Ma’me Félicie. An’ Miss Bosey, she ‘low it don’ make no odd’ ‘bout de price, ‘long she git hole somebody w’at know how to cook.”
Madame’s fingers worked nervously at the illuminated cover of a magazine. She said nothing. Only tightened her lips and blinked her small eyes.
When Bosey thrust her head in at the door to inquire how “Tantine” was getting on, the old lady fumbled at the books with a pretense of having been occupied with looking at them.
“That’s right, Tante Félicie! You look as comfortable as can be. I wanted to make you a nice glass of lemonade, but Susan tells me there isn’t a lemon on the place. I told Fannie’s boy to bring up half a box of lemons from Lablatte’s store in the handcart. There’s nothing healthier than lemonade in summer. And he’s going to bring a chunk of ice, too. We’ll have to order ice from town after this.” She had on a white apron over her gingham dress, and her sleeves were rolled to the elbows.
“I detes’ lemonade; it is bad for mon estomac,” interposed Madame vehemently. “We ‘ave no use in the worl’ for lemon’, an’ there is no place vere to keep ice. Tell Fannie’s boy never min’ about lemon’ an’ ice.”
