a l'eau_."

"You are going to do _what_?" I cried incredulously.

She repeated that she would "chuck" herself into the river--"_Se fich a
l'eau_" is not the French of Racine. I remonstrated. She retorted that
if she could not keep the master's house in order there was nothing left
to live for. Much better be dead than eat your heart out in misery.

"You are talking like a wicked girl," said I severely, "and it will be
my duty to tell the master."

She gave her eyes a final dab with my handkerchief which she restored to
me with an air of scornful resentment.

"If you do, you will be infamous, and I will never speak to you again as
long as I live."

I descended from my Rhadamanthine seat and reflected that the betrayal
of Blanquette's confidence would not be a gallant action. I maintained
my dignity, however.

"Then I must hear nothing more about you drowning yourself."

"We will not talk of it any longer," said Blanquette, frigidly. "I am
going to cook the dinner."

As the prim salon provided little interest for an idle youth, I followed
her into the slip of a kitchen, where I lounged in great contentment and
discomfort. Blanquette relapsed into her fatalistic attitude towards
life and seemed to dismiss the disastrous subject from her mind. While
she prepared the simple meal she entertained me with an account of the
farm near Chartres. There were so many cows, so many ducks and hens and
so many pigs. She rose at five every morning and milked the cows. Oh,
she had milked cows as a child and had not forgotten the art. It was
difficult for those who did not know. _Tiens!_ She demonstrated with
finger and thumb and a lettuce how it was done.

"I shall not forget it," said I.

"It is good to know things," she remarked seriously.

"One never can tell," said I, "when a cow will come to you weeping to be
milked: especially in the Rue des Saladiers."

"That is true," replied Blanquette. "The oddest things happen
sometimes."

Light satire was lost on Blanquette.

After dinner she continued the recital of her adventures for the
Master's delectation. The old couple no longer able to look after the
farm were desirous of selling it, so that they could retire to Evreux
where their only son who had married a rich wife kept a prosperous
hotel.

"Do you know what they said, Master. 'Why does not Monsieur Paragot, who
must be very rich, buy it from us and come to live in the country
instead of that dirty Paris?' _C'est