ct that she had gone out
of her way to look after him the day before. Nor did it explain that
she had this morning invested herself with these slovenly belongings,
taken in the demi-litre of milk that ornamented her door-knob, gone
down into the street for additional "petits pains," added a couple of
eggs "a la coque" to the usual morning menu, set Poupon to work on the
cafe-au-lait, and was now putting the finishing touches to her little
table in anticipation of the appetite of her awaking guest.

"Bonjour, my little housekeeper."

"Ah! bonjour, Monsieur Jean. Have you rested well? What a lazy man!
You look well this morning, monsieur."

"Oh, yes; and why not, mon enfant?" said he, straightening up somewhat
stiffly.

"And your poor bones?" she laughingly inquired, referring to the
improvised couch. "It is not a comfortable bed for one like monsieur."

"It is luxury unspeakable compared to the bed I had anticipated early
last evening. I never slept better in all my life."

"Good!" said she.

"And I'm hungry."

"Better!" said she. "Here is a clean towel and here is water," showing
him her modest toilet arrangement, "and here is petite Poupon
scolding----"

"'Poupon'? 'scolding'?"

"Yes, monsieur. Have you, then, forgotten poor little Poupon? For
shame!" With mock indignation.

She took the small blue teakettle, which had already begun to "scold,"
and, stooping over the hearth, made the coffee. She then dropped the
two eggs in the same teakettle and consulted the clock.

"Hard or soft?" she asked.

"Minute and a half," he replied in the folds of the towel.

She was pouring the coffee back through the strainer in order to get
the full strength of it, though it already looked as black as tar and
strong enough to float an iron wedge. At the same time she saw him
before her glass attentively examining the marks on his throat, now
even more distinctly red than on the night before. But she knew
instinctively that his thoughts were not of his own, but of another
neck.

Breakfast was not the lively repast of the previous evening. In the
best of circumstances breakfast is a pessimistic meal. The world never
looks the same as it appeared at yesterday's dinner.

Jean had risen to a falling barometer. The first ebullition of joy at
having been spared the slaughter of his friend and the brother of the
girl he loved had passed and the real future stared him in the face.
He began to entertain doubts as to whether a