isfaction was
visible upon his countenance. "From this," thought Mademoiselle
Marguerite, "I must infer that he usually goes hungry, and that this
seems a positive feast to him." In fact, he seemed bubbling over with
contentment. He twirled his mustaches a la Victor Emmanuel, and rolled
his "r," as he said, "Sacr-r-r-r-r-e bleu!" even more ferociously than
usual. It was only by a powerful effort that he restrained himself from
indulging in various witticisms which would have been most unseemly in
the presence of a poor girl who had just lost her father and all her
hopes of fortune. But he did forget himself so much as to say that the
drive to the cemetery had whetted his appetite, and to address his wife
as Madame Range-a-bord, a title which had been bestowed upon her by a
sailor brother.

Crimson with anger to the very roots of her coarse, sandy hair--amazed
to see her husband deport himself in this style, and almost suffocated
by the necessity of restraining her wrath, Madame de Fondege was heroic
enough to smile, though her eyes flashed ominously. But the General was
not at all dismayed. On the contrary, he cared so little for his wife's
displeasure that, when the dessert was served, he turned to the servant,
and, with a wink that Mademoiselle Marguerite noticed, "Evariste," he
ordered, "go to the wine-cellar, and bring me a bottle of old Bordeaux."

The valet, who had just received a week's notice, was only too glad of
an opportunity for revenge. So with a malicious smile, and in a drawling
tone, he replied: "Then monsieur must give me the money. Monsieur knows
very well that neither the grocer nor the wine-merchant will trust him
any longer."

M. de Fondege rose from the table, looking very pale; but before he had
time to utter a word, his wife came to the rescue. "You know, my dear,
that I don't trust the key of my cellar to this lad. Evariste, call
Justine."

The pert-looking chambermaid appeared, and her mistress told her where
she would find the key of the famous cellar. About a quarter of an hour
afterward, one of those bottles which grocers and wine-merchants prepare
for the benefit of credulous customers was brought in--a bottle duly
covered with dust and mould to give it a venerable appearance, and
festooned with cobwebs, such as the urchins of Paris collect and sell at
from fifteen sous to two francs a pound, according to quality. But the
Bordeaux did not restore the General's equanimity. He was silent