xed on his glass, and so
stupefied with grief, that he could not even think.

In a corner, Madame Caravan was talking with the doctor and asking what
the necessary formalities were, as she wanted to obtain practical
information. At last, Monsieur Chenet, who appeared to be waiting for
something, took up his hat and prepared to go, saying that he had not
dined yet; whereupon she exclaimed:

"What! you have not dined? Why, stay here, doctor; don't go. You shall
have whatever we have, for, of course, you understand that we do not fare
sumptuously." He made excuses and refused, but she persisted, and said:
"You really must stay; at times like this, people like to have friends
near them, and, besides that, perhaps you will be able to persuade my
husband to take some nourishment; he must keep up his strength."

The doctor bowed, and, putting down his hat, he said:

"In that case, I will accept your invitation, madame."

She gave Rosalie, who seemed to have lost her head, some orders, and then
sat down, "to pretend to eat," as she said, "to keep the doctor company."

The soup was brought in again, and Monsieur Chenet took two helpings.
Then there came a dish of tripe, which exhaled a smell of onions, and
which Madame Caravan made up her mind to taste.

"It is excellent," the doctor said, at which she smiled, and, turning to
her husband, she said:

"Do take a little, my poor Alfred, only just to put something in your
stomach. Remember that you have got to pass the night watching by her!"

He held out his plate, docilely, just as he would have gone to bed, if he
had been told to, obeying her in everything, without resistance and
without reflection, and he ate; the doctor helped himself three times,
while Madame Caravan, from time to time, fished out a large piece at the
end of her fork, and swallowed it with a sort of studied indifference.

When a salad bowl full of macaroni was brought in, the doctor said:

"By Jove! That is what I am very fond of." And this time, Madame Caravan
helped everybody. She even filled the saucers that were being scraped by
the children, who, being left to themselves, had been drinking wine
without any water, and were now kicking each other under the table.

Chenet remembered that Rossini, the composer, had been very fond of that
Italian dish, and suddenly he exclaimed:

"Why! that rhymes, and one could begin some lines like this:

The Maestro Rossini
Was fond of macaron