The repast was magnificent and seemed interminable. One course followed
another; yellow cider and red wine in fraternal contact blended in the
stomach of the guests. The rattle of plates, the sound of voices, and of
music softly played, made an incessant deep hum, and was dispersed abroad
in the clear sky where the swallows were flying. Mme. Husson occasionally
readjusted her black wig, which would slip over on one side, and chatted
with Abbe Malon. The mayor, who was excited, talked politics with
Commandant Desbarres, and Isidore ate, drank, as if he had never eaten or
drunk before. He helped himself repeatedly to all the dishes, becoming
aware for the first time of the pleasure of having one's belly full of
good things which tickle the palate in the first place. He had let out a
reef in his belt and, without speaking, and although he was a little
uneasy at a wine stain on his white waistcoat, he ceased eating in order
to take up his glass and hold it to his mouth as long as possible, to
enjoy the taste slowly.

It was time for the toasts. They were many and loudly applauded. Evening
was approaching and they had been at the table since noon. Fine, milky
vapors were already floating in the air in the valley, the light
night-robe of streams and meadows; the sun neared the horizon; the cows
were lowing in the distance amid the mists of the pasture. The feast was
over. They returned to Gisors. The procession, now disbanded, walked in
detachments. Mme. Husson had taken Isidore's arm and was giving him a
quantity of urgent, excellent advice.

They stopped at the door of the fruit store, and the "Rosier" was left at
his mother's house. She had not come home yet. Having been invited by her
family to celebrate her son's triumph, she had taken luncheon with her
sister after having followed the procession as far as the banqueting
tent.