The maid brought the tureen of soup just as Ducrau, with a sigh of contentment, was tucking a generous portion of his serviette between his detachable collar and his skin. There was no fire lit, and Madame Ducrau, who felt the cold, had wrapped round her shoulders a black knitted shawl which resembled a large candle-snuffer. Berthe’s empty chair was directly opposite Ducrau, who said to the servant: ‘Go and tell my daughter to come down.’ He helped himself to soup and placed an enormous piece of bread next to his plate. Because his wife kept sniffing, he frowned two or three times before finally losing patience. ‘Have you caught a cold?’ ‘I think so,’ she stammered, turning her head away so no one would see that she was about to start crying again. Meanwhile, Decharme was keeping an ear open for sounds from upstairs as he plied his spoon most elegantly. ‘Well, Mélie?’ ‘Madame Berthe says to say she can’t come down.’ Ducrau slurped his soup noisily.
