He had not the heart to tell her that his "nothing" meant a few hundred francs to his credit and a few louis in his pocket at that moment,—more than she had ever possessed at any one time in her life.
As it was, she walked along by his side with that feeling of camaraderie experienced by those in the same run of luck as to the world's goods, and with that buoyancy of spirit which attends a good action. The few francs and odd sous in the little purse were abundant for to-day,—the morrow could take care of itself.
They turned up the narrow Rue Royer-Collard, where she stopped for the litre of Bordeaux, responding gayly to the wayside queries and comments. Reaching the Rue St. Jacques, there were the salad and the cheese to add to the necessary part of the French meal; and the bit of beef and the inevitable onions brought up the rear of purchases.
"I have some potatoes and carrots," she said, reflectively,—"so much saved. Let us see. It is not so bad,—quatre-vingt-cinq, dix, cinquante,—un franc quarante-cinq."
She made the calculation as they went up the worn stairway after the passage of the tunnel.
"Not half bad," said he, compelled to admire her cleverness.
Reaching her chamber, she deposited the entire evening investment on the hearth, proceeding to the preliminary features of preparation. She threw her hat on the bed, then pulled off the light bolero and sent it after the hat, and then she began slipping out of her skirt by suddenly letting it fall in a ring about her feet.
"Oh!" said Jean.
"Excuse me, will you? I can't risk my pretty skirt for appearances. You won't mind, monsieur? Non!"
"That's right," he said,—"a skirt is only a skirt."