n have tea, or coffee, or hot wine. Do you like hot wine,
monsieur? With a bit of lemon it is very good. And look here," she
continued rapidly, without giving him time to say anything, "it is
quite snug and comfortable, is it not?"

She had thrown open a door next to the mantel and proudly exploited a
cupboard containing various bits of china and glassware. The cupboard
was in the wall and closed flush with the latter, the door being
covered with the same paper. There were a few cooking utensils below.

"Yes, to be sure, mademoiselle, it is all very nice indeed," said he,
"but--but have you got a bit to eat anywhere about the place?"

"Oh, pardon, monsieur! Oh, yes! Have we anything to eat, Poupon?
Monsieur shall see."

She pinned up her skirt in a business-like manner, grabbed the little
oil-stove, and placed it in the fireplace.

Jean watched her mechanically without thinking of her. He heard her
without comprehending clearly what she said. And yet, somehow, he
seemed to lean upon her as something tangible, something to keep his
mind from sinking into its recent despondency.

"Tiens! but, mademoiselle," he cried, starting up all at once, "you
are not going to try to cook on that thing!"

"What? Hear him, then, Poupon, cherie! To be called 'that thing!' Oh!"

Mlle. Fouchette affected great indignation on the part of herself and
domestic friend,--the worst that could be said of which friend was
that it emitted a bad odor of a Pennsylvania product,--but it did not
interfere with her act of successfully rolling a promising omelette.
She had already prettily arranged the table for two, on which were
temptingly displayed a litre of Bordeaux, a loaf of bread, and a dish
of olives.

"But----"

"Now, don't say a word, monsieur, or I'll drop something."

"You need not have cooked anything," he protested. "A bit of bread and
wine would have----"

"Poor Poupon! So monsieur thinks you are pas bon! Perhaps monsieur
thinks you and I don't eat up here, eh? Non? Monsieur is in love----"

"Mademoiselle!"

"Oh, I talk to Poupon, whom you despise,--and--now, the omelette,
monsieur. Let me help you."

They had drawn chairs to the table, and the girl poured two glasses of
wine. She watched him drain his glass and then refilled it, finally
observing, with a smile,--

"It can't be Madeleine----"

"Oh! to the devil with----" but he checked himself by the sudden
recollection of the terrible misfortune that had overtaken M