ot," said he, "the _argumentum ad ventrem_ is irrefutable."

"Now I must go and make my _malle_" she said. "I return to Chambery to
try to earn my two sous."

"Won't you stay here over the night? You must be very tired."

"One must work for one's living, Monsieur," she said moving away.

It was afternoon. We had trudged the three dusty miles back from the
tiny churchyard where we had left the old man's unlamented grave, and
Paragot, as usual, was washing his throat with beer. It must be noted,
not to his glorification, that about this time a chronic dryness began
to be the main characteristic of Paragot's throat, and the only
humectant that seemed to be of no avail was water.

The sun still blazed and the hush of the July afternoon lay over the
valley. Paragot watched the thickset form of Blanquette disappear into
the cafe; he poured out another bottle of beer and addressed Narcisse
who was blinking idly up at him.

"If she had a pair of decent stays, my dog, or no stays at all, she
might have something of a figure. What do you think? On the whole--no."

Narcisse stood on his hind legs, his forepaws on his master's arm, and
uttered little plaintive whines. Paragot patted him on the head.

As I was engaged a yard or two away, elbows on knees, in what Paragot
was pleased to call my studies--Thierry's "Recits des Temps
Merovingiens," a tattered, flyblown copy of which he had bought at
Chambery--he was careful not to interrupt me; he talked to the dog.
Paragot had to talk to something. If he were alone he would have talked
to his shadow; in his coffin he would have apostrophised the worms.

"Yes, my dog," said he, after a draught of beer. "We have passed through
more than we wotted of these two days. We have held a human being by the
hand and have faced with her the eternal verities. Now she is going to
earn her two sous in the whirlpool, and the whirlpool will suck her
down, and as she has not claims to beauty, Narcisse, of any kind
whatsoever, either of face or figure, hers will be a shuddersome career
and end. Say you are sorry for poor Blanquette de Veau."

Narcisse sniffed at the table, but finding it bare of everything but
beer, in which he took no interest, dropped on his four legs and curled
himself up in dudgeon.

"You damned cynical sensualist," cried my master. "I have wasted the
breath of my sentiment upon you." And he called out for the landlady and
more beer.

Presently Blanquette emerged laden wi