of babies.
Her greatest delight would be to wash us and feed us with a spoon."

"Master," said I, somewhat timidly, "I think Blanquette is sometimes
just a little bit miserable because you don't seem to care for her."

He regarded me in astonishment.

"I not care for Blanquette? But you ridiculous little lump of idiocy!
will you never understand? She, like you, is part of myself." He thumped
his chest as usual. "In the name of petticoats, what does she want? In
Russia I met an honest German artisan who had married a peasant girl.
After a month's unclouded existence she broke down beneath the load of
misery. Her husband didn't love her. Why? Because they had been married
a whole month and he hadn't beaten her yet! Does the child want me to
beat her? I believe lots of women do. And you, mindless little donkey,
what do you want me to make of her? Your head is full of the
imbecilities of the studio. Because I keep her here like my daughter,
and have not made her my mistress, you take it upon yourself to conclude
that I have no affection for her. Bah! You know nothing. You have lived
with me all these years, and you know nothing whatever about me. You
don't even know Blanquette. Beneath an unprepossessing exterior she has
a heart of gold. She has every large-souled quality that a woman can
stuff into her nature. She would live on cheese-rind and egg shells, if
she thought it would benefit either of us. I not care for Blanquette?
You shall see."

So the following afternoon when we met Blanquette's train at the Gare
Saint-Lazare, Paragot had taken her into his arms and planted a kiss on
each of her broad cheeks before she realised who the magnificent,
clean-shaven welcomer in the silk hat really was.

When he released her, she stared at him even as I had done.

"_Mais--qu'est-ce que c'est que ca?_" she cried, and I am sure that the
comfort of his kisses was lost in her entire bewilderment.

"It is the Master, Blanquette," said I.

"I know, but you are no longer the same. I shouldn't have recognised
you."

"Do you prefer me as I used to be?"

"_Oui, Monsieur_," said Blanquette.

I burst out laughing.

"She is saying '_Monsieur_' to the silk hat."

"_Mechant!_" she scolded. "But it is true." She turned to the master and
asked him how he had enjoyed his holiday.

"I never went, my little Blanquette."

"You have been in Paris all the time?"

"Yes."

"And you only send for me now? But _mon Dieu!_--how have you