"It's a long drive for him," added the marquise, a ring of sympathy in her voice. "Poor boy, he is working so hard now that he is editor of La Revue Normande. Ah, those wretched politics!"
"He doesn't mind it," broke in Tanrade, "he has a skin like a bear—driving night and day all over the country as he does. What energy, mon Dieu!"
"Oh!" cried Madame de Bréville, "Blondel shall sing for us 'L'Histoire de Madame X.' You shall cry with laughter."
"And 'Le Brigadier de Tours,'" added Tanrade.
The sound of hoofs and the rattle of a dog-cart beyond the wall sent us hurrying to the courtyard.
"Eh, voilà!" shouted Tanrade. "There he is, that good Blondel!"
"Suzette!" I cried as I passed the kitchen. "The vermouth!"
"Bien, monsieur."
"Eh, Blondel, there is nothing to eat, you late vagabond!"
A black mare steaming from her hot pace of twelve miles, drawing a red-wheeled dog-cart, entered the courtyard.