marquise holding the mare's head. All this, despite the pleadings of
Blondel, who has a horror of giving trouble--the only man servant to the
abandoned house being Pierre, who was occupied at that hour in
patrolling the coast in the employ of the French Republique, looking out
for possible smugglers, and in whose spare hours served me as gardener.
And so the mare was led into the stable with its stone manger, where
every one helped with halter, blanket, a warm bed, and a good supper;
Alice de Breville holding the lantern while the marquise bound on the
mare's blanket with a girdle of straw.

"Monsieur, dinner is served," announced Suzette gently as she entered
the stable.

"Vive Suzette!" shouted the company. "_Allons manger, mes enfants!_"

They found their places at the table by themselves. In the abandoned
house there is neither host nor formality, but in their stead
comradeship, understanding, and good cheer.

Blondel is delightful. You can always count on him for the current
events with the soup, the latest scandal with the roast, and a song of
his own making with the cheese. What more can one ask? It all rolls from
him as easily as the ink from his clever pen; it is as natural with him
as his smile or the merriment in his eyes.

During the entire dinner the Essence of Selfishness was busy visiting
from one friendly lap to another, frequently crossing the table to do
so, and as she refuses to dine from a saucer, though it be of the finest
porcelain of Rouen, she was fed piecemeal. It was easily seen Tanrade
was envious of this charity from one shapely little hand.

What a contrast are these dinners in the lost village to some I have
known elsewhere! What refreshing vivacity! How genuine and merry they
are from the arrival of the first guest to the going of the last! When
at last the coffee and liqueurs were reached and six thin spirals of
blue smoke were curling lazily up among the rafters of the low ceiling,
the small upright piano talked under Tanrade's vibrant touch. He sang
heartily whatever came into his head; now a quaint peasant song, again
the latest success of the cafe concert.

Alice de Breville, stretched out in the long chair before the fire, was
listening intently.

And so with song and story the hands of the tall clock slipped by the
hours. It was midnight before we knew it. Again Tanrade played--this
time it was the second act of his new operetta. When he had finished he
took his seat beside