display her neatness to Zephyrin on the Sunday. That was her reception
day. A single cobweb would have filled her with shame; but when
everything shone resplendent around her she became amiable, and burst
into song. At three o'clock she would again wash her hands and don a
cap gay with ribbons. Then the curtain being drawn halfway, so that
only the subdued light of a boudoir came in, she awaited Zephyrin's
arrival amidst all this primness, through which a pleasant scent of
thyme and laurel was borne.

At half-past three exactly Zephyrin made his appearance; he would walk
about the street until the clocks of the neighborhood had struck the
half-hour. Rosalie listened to the beat of his heavy shoes on the
stairs, and opened the door the moment he halted on the landing. She
had forbidden him to ring the bell. At each visit the same greeting
passed between them.

"Is it you?"

"Yes, it's me!"

And they stood face to face, their eyes sparkling and their lips
compressed. Then Zephyrin followed Rosalie; but there was no admission
vouchsafed to him till she had relieved him of shako and sabre. She
would have none of these in her kitchen; and so the sabre and shako
were hidden away in a cupboard. Next she would make him sit down in
the corner she had contrived near the window, and thenceforth he was
not allowed to budge.

"Sit still there! You can look on, if you like, while I get madame's
dinner ready."

But he rarely appeared with empty hands. He would usually spend the
morning in strolling with some comrades through the woods of Meudon,
lounging lazily about, inhaling the fresh air, which inspired him with
regretful memories of his country home. To give his fingers something
to do he would cut switches, which he tapered and notched with
marvelous figurings, and his steps gradually slackening he would come
to a stop beside some ditch, his shako on the back of his head, while
his eyes remained fixed on the knife with which he was carving the
stick. Then, as he could never make up his mind to discard his
switches, he carried them in the afternoon to Rosalie, who would throw
up her hands, and exclaim that they would litter her kitchen. But the
truth was, she carefully preserved them; and under her bed was
gathered a bundle of these switches, of all sorts and sizes.

One day he made his appearance with a nest full of eggs, which he had
secreted in his shako under the folds of a handkerchief. Omelets made
from the eggs