of wild birds, so he declared, were very nice--a
statement which Rosalie received with horror; the nest, however, was
preserved and laid away in company with the switches. But Zephyrin's
pockets were always full to overflowing. He would pull curiosities
from them, transparent pebbles found on the banks of the Seine, pieces
of old iron, dried berries, and all sorts of strange rubbish, which
not even a rag-picker would have cared for. His chief love, however,
was for pictures; as he sauntered along he would seize on all the
stray papers that had served as wrappers for chocolate or cakes of
soap, and on which were black men, palm-trees, dancing-girls, or
clusters of roses. The tops of old broken boxes, decorated with
figures of languid, blonde ladies, the glazed prints and silver paper
which had once contained sugar-sticks and had been thrown away at the
neighboring fairs, were great windfalls that filled his bosom with
pride. All such booty was speedily transferred to his pockets, the
choicer articles being enveloped in a fragment of an old newspaper.
And on Sunday, if Rosalie had a moment's leisure between the
preparation of a sauce and the tending of the joint, he would exhibit
his pictures to her. They were hers if she cared for them; only as the
paper around them was not always clean he would cut them out, a
pastime which greatly amused him. Rosalie got angry, as the shreds of
paper blew about even into her plates; and it was a sight to see with
what rustic cunning he would at last gain possession of her scissors.
At times, however, in order to get rid of him, she would give them up
without any asking.

Meanwhile some brown sauce would be simmering on the fire. Rosalie
watched it, wooden spoon in hand; while Zephyrin, his head bent and
his breadth of shoulder increased by his epaulets, continued cutting
out the pictures. His head was so closely shaven that the skin of his
skull could be seen; and the yellow collar of his tunic yawned widely
behind, displaying his sunburnt neck. For a quarter of an hour at a
time neither would utter a syllable. When Zephyrin raised his head, he
watched Rosalie while she took some flour, minced some parsley, or
salted and peppered some dish, his eyes betraying the while intense
interest. Then, at long intervals, a few words would escape him:

"By Jove! that does smell nice!"

The cook, busily engaged, would not vouchsafe an immediate reply; but
after a lengthy silence she perhaps exc