in to make this match. He laughed pleasantly, at the enthusiastic
gaiety which the young girl displayed as she began to question him. "Is
not that the Marquis de Salmon-Roquebert," she asked, "who is sitting
over yonder between those two young men who look like shop assistants?"

"They are, in fact, the sons of a small stationer at Tarbes," replied
Berthaud; "and that is really the Marquis, your neighbour of the Rue de
Lille, the owner of that magnificent mansion, one of the richest and most
noble men of title in France. You see how he is enjoying our mutton
stew!"

It was true, the millionaire Marquis seemed delighted to be able to board
himself for his three francs a day, and to sit down at table in genuine
democratic fashion by the side of petty _bourgeois_ and workmen who would
not have dared to accost him in the street. Was not that chance table
symbolical of social communion, effected by the joint practice of
charity? For his part, the Marquis was the more hungry that day, as he
had bathed over sixty patients, sufferers from all the most abominable
diseases of unhappy humanity, at the piscinas that morning. And the scene
around him seemed like a realisation of the evangelical commonalty; but
doubtless it was so charming and so gay simply because its duration was
limited to three days.

Although M. de Guersaint had but lately risen from table, his curiosity
prompted him to taste the mutton stew, and he pronounced it perfect.
Meantime, Pierre caught sight of Baron Suire, the director of the
Hospitality, walking about between the rows of tables with an air of some
importance, as though he had allotted himself the task of keeping an eye
on everything, even on the manner in which his staff fed itself. The
young priest thereupon remembered the ardent desire which Marie had
expressed to spend the night in front of the Grotto, and it occurred to
him that the Baron might be willing to give the necessary authorisation.

"Certainly," replied the director, who had become quite grave whilst
listening to Pierre, "we do sometimes allow it; but it is always a very
delicate matter! You assure me at all events that this young person is
not consumptive? Well, well, since you say that she so much desires it I
will mention the matter to Father Fourcade and warn Madame de Jonquiere,
so that she may let you take the young lady away."

He was in reality a very good-natured fellow, albeit so fond of assuming
the air of an indispensabl