ved by the sight of the widow, who would have been
beautiful but for her gray hair and eyelids, red from so much weeping,
he stammered a few words of thanks for the invitation to dinner.

"My son has told me," said she, "that you are the one among all his
comrades that he cares for most. I know what affection you have shown
him. I am the one who should thank you, Monsieur Amedee."

They seated themselves and talked; every few moments these words were
spoken by Madame Roger with an accent of pride and tenderness, "My son
.... my son Maurice." Amedee realized how pleasant his friend's life
must be with such a good mother, and he could not help comparing his
own sad childhood, recalling above all things the lugubrious evening
repasts, when, for several years now, he had buried his nose in his
plate so as not to see his father's drunken eyes always fastened upon
him as if to ask for his pardon.

Maurice let his mother praise him for a few moments, looking at her with
a pleasant smile which became a trifle saddened. Finally he interrupted
her:

"It is granted, mamma, that I am a perfect phoenix," and he gayly
embraced her.

At this moment the pretty maid announced, "Monsieur and Mesdemoiselles
Lantz," and Madame Roger arose hastily to receive the newcomers.
Lieutenant-Colonel Lantz, of the Engineer Corps, was with Captain Roger
when he died in the trench before Mamelon Vert; and might have been at
that time pleasant to look upon, in his uniform with its black velvet
breastplate; but, having been promoted some time ago to the office,
he had grown aged, leaning over the plans and draughts on long tables
covered with rules and compasses. With a cranium that looked like a
picked bird, his gray, melancholy imperial, his stooping shoulders,
which shortened still more his tightly buttoned military coat, there
was nothing martial in his appearance. With his head full of whims, no
fortune, and three daughters to marry, the poor Colonel, who put on only
two or three times a year, for official solemnities, his uniform, which
he kept in camphor, dined every Sunday night with Madame Roger, who
liked this estimable man because he was her husband's best friend, and
had invited him with his three little girls, who looked exactly alike,
with their turned-up noses, florid complexions, and little, black,
bead-like eyes, always so carefully dressed that one involuntarily
compared them to three pretty cakes prepared for some wedding or fest