ouches. He was looking critically over the three cobwebbed bottles of
his favourite Burgundy now warming before my fire, and having tenderly
lifted the last bottle in the row to a place which he considered a safer
temperature, he straightened and squared his broad shoulders to the
blaze.

"I'll send you half a dozen more bottles to-morrow," he said.

"No, you won't, my old one," I protested, but he raised his hand and
smiled.

"The better the wine the merrier shall be the giver. Eighteen bottles
left! _Eh bien!_ It was a lucky day when that monastery was forced to
disband," he chuckled, alluding to the recent separation of the church
from the state. "_Vive la Republique!_" He crossed the room to the
sideboard and, having assured himself the Camembert was of the right
age, went singing into Suzette's kitchen to glance at the salad.

"Bravo, my little one, for your romaine!" I heard him exclaim.

Then a moment's silence ensued, while he tasted the dressing.
"_Sacristi!_ My child, do you think we are rabbits. _Helas!_ Not a bit
of astragon in your seasoning! A thousand thunders! A salad is not a
salad without astragon. Come, be quick, the lantern! I know where the
bed is in the garden."

"Ah, monsieur Tanrade! To think I should have forgotten it!" sighed the
little maid. "If monsieur will only let me hold the lantern for him!"

"There, there! Never mind! See, you are forgiven. Attend to your
lobster. Quick, your soup is boiling over!" And he went out into the
garden in search of the seasoning.

Suzette adores him--who does not in the lost village? He had rewarded
her with a two-franc piece and forgiven her with a kiss.

I had hardly time to open the big gates without and light the candles
within under their red shades glowing over the mass of roses still wet
from the garden, before I heard the devilish wail of a siren beyond the
wall; then a sudden flash of white light from two search-lights
illumined the courtyard, and with a wrenching growl Madame Alice de
Breville's automobile whined up to my door. The next instant the tip of
a little patent-leather slipper, followed by the trimmest of silken
ankles framed in a frou-frou of creamy lace, felt for the steel step of
the limousine. At the same moment a small white-gloved hand was
outstretched to mine for support.

"_Bonsoir_, dear friend," she greeted me in her delicious voice. "You
see how punctual I am. _L'heure militaire_--like you Americans." And
she laughed