"We will save money
until we can buy a better."

"I would execrate it were it a Stradivarius," said he, his mouth full of
sop. "Asticot," he called, "don't you loathe your tambourine?"

"Yes, Master," I replied from the floor.

"Do you love playing the zither?"

"But no, Maitre," said Blanquette.

"Why then," said my master, "should we pursue a career which is equally
abominable to the three of us? We are not slaves, _nom d'un chien_!"

"We must work," said Blanquette, "or what would become of us?"

Paragot finished his coffee and bread and handed the bowl to Blanquette
who nursed it in her lap, while he settled himself snugly beneath the
bedclothes. The autumn rain beat against the dirty little window and the
wind howled through chinks and crevices, filling the room with cold damp
air. I drew the old blanket which I had brought from my manger-bed
closer round my shoulders. Blanquette with her peasant's indifference to
change of temperature sat unconcerned in her thin cotton dress.

"But what will become of us?" she repeated.

"I shall continue to exist," said he.

"But I, what shall I do?"

"You can fill my porcelain pipe, and let me think," replied Paragot.

She rose in her calm obedient way and, having carried out his orders,
reseated herself at the foot of the bed.

"You are the most patient creature alive," said he, "otherwise you would
not be contented to go on playing the zither, which is not a very
exhilarating instrument, my little Blanquette. I am not patient, and I
am not going to play the violin again for a million years after tonight,
and the violin is superior to the zither."

Blanquette regarded him uncomprehending.

"If I were a king I would live in a palace and you should be my
housekeeper. But as I am a ragged vagabond too idle to work, I am
puzzled as to the disposal of you."

She grew very white and rose to her feet.

"I understand. You are driving me away. If it is your desire I will earn
my living alone. _Je ne vous serai pas sur le dos._"

For all her vulgar asseveration that she would not be on his back, her
manner held a dignity which touched him. He held out his hand.

"But I don't drive you away, little idiot," he laughed. "On the
contrary. You are like Asticot and Narcisse. You belong to me. But
Asticot is going to learn how to become an artist, and Narcisse when he
is bored can hunt for fleas. You are a young woman; things must arrange
themselves differently. But how?