"And Barbarine is still angry—"
"Make up with her, my child—anger is an evil bird to take to one's heart," the deep voice went on.
"It is my mother," explained Monsieur Paul. "It is her favorite seat, out yonder, on the green bench in the courtyard. I call it her judge's bench," he smiled, indulgently, as he went on. "She dispenses justice with more authority than any other magistrate in town. I am Mayor, as it happens, just now; but madame my mother is far above me, in real power. She rules the town and the country about, for miles. Everyone comes to her sooner or later for counsel and command. You will soon see for yourselves."
A murmur of assent from all the table accompanied Monsieur Paul's prophecy.
"Femme vraiment remarquable," hoarsely whispered a stout breakfaster, behind his napkin, between two spoonsful of his soup.
"Not two in a century like her," said my neighbor.
"No—nor two in all France—non plus," retorted the stout man.
"She could rule a kingdom—hey, Paul?"
"She rules me—as you see—and a man is harder to govern than a province, they say," smiled Monsieur Paul with a humorous relish, obviously the offspring of experience. "In France, mesdames," he added, a sweeter look of feeling coming into the deep eyes, "you see we are always children—toujours enfants—as long as the mother lives. We are never really old till she dies. May the good God preserve her!" and he lifted his glass toward the green bench. The table drank the toast, in silence.
[Illustration: CHAMBRE DE LA PUCELLES—DIVES]