"Oh, pardon, monsieur! Oh, yes! Have we anything to eat, Poupon? Monsieur shall see."
She pinned up her skirt in a business-like manner, grabbed the little oil-stove, and placed it in the fireplace.
Jean watched her mechanically without thinking of her. He heard her without comprehending clearly what she said. And yet, somehow, he seemed to lean upon her as something tangible, something to keep his mind from sinking into its recent despondency.
"Tiens! but, mademoiselle," he cried, starting up all at once, "you are not going to try to cook on that thing!"
"What? Hear him, then, Poupon, chérie! To be called 'that thing!' Oh!"
Mlle. Fouchette affected great indignation on the part of herself and domestic friend,—the worst that could be said of which friend was that it emitted a bad odor of a Pennsylvania product,—but it did not interfere with her act of successfully rolling a promising omelette. She had already prettily arranged the table for two, on which were temptingly displayed a litre of Bordeaux, a loaf of bread, and a dish of olives.
"But——"
"Now, don't say a word, monsieur, or I'll drop something."
"You need not have cooked anything," he protested. "A bit of bread and wine would have——"
"Poor Poupon! So monsieur thinks you are pas bon! Perhaps monsieur thinks you and I don't eat up here, eh? Non? Monsieur is in love——"