We enter. In the ante–chamber Madame Boulestin greets us. I notice her swiftly discarded apron, fallen on the floor in front of a chair which was meant to receive it. It tells of her state of nerves, poor woman. I am sure she doesn't raise her glass to…what's the matter with me? Is it the heat? Introductions continue or rather are resumed. “Translate, Frank!” I don't. I have had about enough of this pantomime. “Where is Monsieur Boulestin?” asks Georg unbuttoning his jacket, taking good care to replace his belt–with–holster round that enormous waist, looking in the direction of the kitchen for Monsieur Boulestin to show up. He's taking his time, our Monsieur Boulestin. We are cluttering the entrance hall, waiting for the reluctant ’chef‘ to make his appearance.
“Le voilà!” comes out of hi
