Paris.
You must have done much sifting."

"I will tell you as we drive," she said.

I walked with them across the pavement and opened the carriage door.

"Goodnight, Mr. Asticot," said Madame la Comtesse holding out her hand.

Paragot looked from me to her, shrugged his shoulders and followed her
into the carriage. My master had many English attributes, but in the
shrug, the pantomime of Kismet, he was exclusively French.

CHAPTER XII

"_Mais dis donc, Asticot_," said Blanquette holding a half egg-shell in
each hand while the yolk and white fell into the bowl, "who was the lady
that came last night and wanted to see the Master?"

"You had better ask him," said I.

"I have done so, but he will not tell me."

"What did he say?"

"He told me to ask the serpent. I don't know what he meant," said
Blanquette.

I explained the allusion to the curiosity of Eve.

"But," objected the literal Blanquette, "there is no serpent in the Rue
des Saladiers--unless it is you."

"You have beaten those eggs enough," I remarked.

"You can teach me many things, but how to make omelettes--ah no!"

"All right," said I, "when your inordinate curiosity has spoiled the
thing, don't blame me."

"She is very pretty," said Blanquette.

"Pretty? She is entirely adorable."

Blanquette sighed. "She must have a great many lovers."

"Blanquette!" cried I scandalised, "she is married."

"Naturally. If she weren't she could not have lovers. I wish I were only
half as beautiful."

The lump of butter cast into the frying-pan sizzled, and Blanquette
sighed again. I must explain that I had come, as I often did, to share
Paragot's midday meal, but as he was still abed, Blanquette had enticed
me into her tiny kitchen. The omelette being for my sole consumption I
may be pardoned for my interest in its concoction.

"So that you could be married and have lovers?" I asked in a superior
way.

"Too many lovers make life unhappy," she replied sagely. "If I were
pretty I should only want one--one to love me for myself."

"And for what are you loved now?"

"For my omelettes," she said with a deft turn of the frying-pan.

"Blanquette," said I, "_je t'adore_."

She laughed with an "_es-tu bete!_" and ministered to my wants as I sat
down to my meal at a corner of the kitchen table. She loved this. Great
as was her pride in the speckless and orderly salon, she never felt at
her ease there. In the kitchen she was herself, at home, and