ncilling was bright green and that it had no bed. There was in each
room a big bunch of dahlias of gorgeous hues--offerings from Madame
Chalumeau.

Yellow Dog Papillon, who had been left with Brigit to keep her company,
lay on one of the rugs and snapped rudely at flies. It was very warm,
and the tea had proved quite undrinkable. Brigit thought that she did
not greatly care for the Chevreuil d'Or.

Then eight o'clock struck and she rose and rang for hot water. The
"maid," who was incidentally a grandmother, wore a blue skirt and a red
blouse and smiled cheerfully and toothlessly.

"Yes, yes, mademoiselle, _de l'eau chaude_. I have brought it! _Je
connais ma clientele, moi._" With a proud smile she set down a jug about
as large as a milk-jug for two coffee-drinkers, and withdrew.

Smiling to herself, Brigit dressed and then went into her sitting-room,
and opening a window looked down into the street.

It is a most important thoroughfare, this Rue d'Argentin; the Rue de la
Paix de Falaise.

Leaning out the window and looking to her left Brigit beheld the Place
St. Gervais, with its fountain, its market-place, now of course empty,
and its church steps, on which beggars sleep by day. Opposite her was a
_cafe_, at present enlivened by the dashing presence of two
foot-soldiers and an old man playing dominoes with himself.

Above the houses the sky was pale and clear, and from a garden off to
the right at the end of the street came a cooing of wood-pigeons.

Two little boys in black blouses came running up the street, their
sabots clacking against the rough cobbles. Someone was playing a
mandolin, and at the foot of the street, near the bridge, a girl in a
pink apron was flirting with a youth with curly red hair.

People stood by their shop doors, the men smoking small clay pipes, the
women usually with a child or two at their skirts. A quiet scene, dull
and homely, this birthplace of the Conqueror, and at this humble end of
the great street rather pathetic in its aspect of simple relaxation.

Suddenly a little ripple of excited interest touched the groups in the
street. The two soldiers rose and stared hard to their left; M. Perret
of the Pharmacie Normale came out at a quick call from his wife, and
stood, pestle in hand, as she struggled with a maddening knot in the
strings of her black apron.

Brigit, leaning out still further, laughed aloud.

"Victor," she said under her breath. "Oh, _look_ at him! You old
sa