"What do you think of it, my little friend?" Caderousse asked, stirring the pan. "Ah, that smells good, doesn't it? You know I used to be quite the cook. Remember how you used to lick your fingers clean? You were among the first to taste my dishes, and I think you enjoyed them well enough."
As he spoke, Caderousse continued peeling a fresh batch of onions, his knife working with ease.
"Listen," Andrea said irritably, "if you dragged me all the way here just to have breakfast with you, I wish the devil had taken you first!"
"My boy," Caderousse said with mock solemnity, "a man can talk while he eats. Besides, you ungrateful wretch, aren't you happy to see an old friend? I'm practically weeping with joy."
He was indeed crying, though it would have been difficult to say whether the tears came from happiness or from the onions he was chopping. The old innkeeper's eyes streamed freely.
"Shut up, you hypocrite," Andrea snapped. "As if you actually care about me!"
