hen, with his insolent, bestial face purple with good
living, who had slammed the door. I half started indignantly from my
chair--then I remembered it was no affair of mine.

Presently madame returned--flushed, and, with a forced smile, in which
there was more pain than pleasure, poured for me another glass of
Musigny. I saw instantly that something unpleasant had passed--something
unusually unpleasant--perhaps tragic, and I discreetly rose to take my
leave.

Without a word of explanation as to what had happened, Madame de
Savignac kissed my dog good-bye on the top of his silky head, while de
Savignac stroked him tenderly. He was perfectly willing to come with me,
and cocked his head on one side.

We were all in the courtyard now.

"_Au revoir_," they waved to me.

"_Au revoir_," I called back.

"_Au revoir_," came back to me faintly, as Pierre and the doggie and I
entered the green lane and started for home.

"Monsieur sees that I was right, is it not true?" ventured Pierre, as we
gained the open fields. "Monsieur de Savignac would have been grieved
had not monsieur accepted the little dog."

"Yes," I replied absently, feeling more like a marauder for having
accepted all they had out of their hearts thrust upon me.

Then I stopped--lifted the roly-poly little spaniel, and taking him in
my arms whispered under his silky ear: "We shall go back often, you and
I"--and I think he understood.

* * * * *

A few days later I dropped into Madame Vinet's snug little cafe in Pont
du Sable. It was early in the morning and the small room of the cafe,
with barely space enough for its four tables still smelt of fresh soap
suds and hot water. At one of the tables sat the peasant in his black
blouse, sipping his coffee and applejack.

Le Gros lifted his sullen face as I entered, shifted his elbows, gripped
the clean marble slab of his table with both his red hands, and with a
shrewd glint from his small, cruel eyes, looked up and grunted.

"Ah!--_bonjour_, monsieur."

"_Bonjour_, Monsieur Le Gros," I replied. "We seem to be the only ones
here. Where's the patronne?"

"Upstairs, making her bed--another dry day," he muttered, half to
himself, half to me.

"She will stay dry for some days," I returned. "The wind is well set
from the northeast."

"_Sacristi!_ a dirty time," he growled. "My steers are as dry as an
empty cask."

"I'd like a little rain myself," said I, reaching for a cha