"But not a sole, Mademoiselle, not a sole! Any sole that is left on the market at six of the evening is left because nobody would buy it. But the dinner was planned for sole!" He stamped his huge, felt-slippered feet in exasperation.
"A mackerel," suggested Marise, "they're good at this time of the year."
He flung his arms over his head. "A mackerel! A gross, fat, dark monster like a mackerel to replace a sole!"
"Oh, no, of course not." Marise saw his point. "I didn't think. Nor salmon, of course."
He shuddered away from the idea of salmon.
They stood staring at each other, thinking hard, the cook's big, parboiled fist clenched on his mouth, his brows knit together, like those of the Penseur.
"Some merlans?" suggested Marise. "You can cook them au gratin just like a sole."
"But will I have time!" he groaned. "Who knows whether the oven is hot enough?"
"Well, hurry back and brighten the fire, while I rush out and get the fish."
He fled back up the stairs, his slippers flapping. She left her roll of music in the concierge's care and darted out into the street, market-bag in hand. Twenty minutes later the fish were being disposed with a religious care on a bed of chopped parsley, shallots, mushrooms and butter. Biron shoved the baking-pan tenderly into the oven, wiped the sweat from his face, and stopped storming at his wife.
"You were not to blame, after all, Melanie," he told her magnanimously, and with a long breath, "But it was a close call, by God, a close call."
In the salon Marise was pouring an apéritif for her father, brightly dishing up the news of the day with the sauce of lively comment, and saying nothing about culinary close calls. Her father listened to her, sipping his Dubonnet with an air of intense satisfaction. He took plenty of time for it, allowing each mouthful to deliver all its complicated burden of tang and bitterness and heat before he took another one into his mouth.
