; the table,
with your additions, will pass; only the wine is execrable--well, I shall
send for some to-day. My Pharaoh will be gratified to drink a decent
glass; aha! and I shall see if he possesses that acme of organisation--a
palate. If he has a palate, he is perfect.'

'Henri,' she said, shaking her head, 'you are a man; you cannot
understand my feelings; no woman could shake off the memory of so public
a humiliation.' The Doctor could not restrain a titter. 'Pardon me,
darling,' he said; 'but really, to the philosophical intelligence, the
incident appears so small a trifle. You looked extremely well--'

'Henri!' she cried.

'Well, well, I will say no more,' he replied. 'Though, to be sure, if
you had consented to indue--_A propos_,' he broke off, 'and my trousers!
They are lying in the snow--my favourite trousers!' And he dashed in
quest of Jean-Marie.

Two hours afterwards the boy returned to the inn with a spade under one
arm and a curious sop of clothing under the other.

The Doctor ruefully took it in his hands. 'They have been!' he said.
'Their tense is past. Excellent pantaloons, you are no more! Stay,
something in the pocket,' and he produced a piece of paper. 'A letter!
ay, now I mind me; it was received on the morning of the gale, when I was
absorbed in delicate investigations. It is still legible. From poor,
dear Casimir! It is as well,' he chuckled, 'that I have educated him to
patience. Poor Casimir and his correspondence--his infinitesimal,
timorous, idiotic correspondence!'

He had by this time cautiously unfolded the wet letter; but, as he bent
himself to decipher the writing, a cloud descended on his brow.

'_Bigre_!' he cried, with a galvanic start.

And then the letter was whipped into the fire, and the Doctor's cap was
on his head in the turn of a hand.

'Ten minutes! I can catch it, if I run,' he cried. 'It is always late.
I go to Paris. I shall telegraph.'

'Henri! what is wrong?' cried his wife.

'Ottoman Bonds!' came from the disappearing Doctor; and Anastasie and
Jean-Marie were left face to face with the wet trousers. Desprez had
gone to Paris, for the second time in seven years; he had gone to Paris
with a pair of wooden shoes, a knitted spencer, a black blouse, a country
nightcap, and twenty francs in his pocket. The fall of the house was but
a secondary marvel; the whole world might have fallen and scarce left his
family more petrified.

CHAPTER VII