The Guégou family made good its promise, and they supped upon the fat of Vallécy, Mère Guégou waiting upon them, her good man bringing from the cellar a cob-webbed bottle which dated from a vintage which was still spoken of in the valley with reverence. A brave wine it was, such as one remembers in after days, and a brave night for Philidor whose heart was singing.
"Ah! la jeunesse!" sighed Madame Guégou, setting down her glass when the healths were drunk. "I, too, Mademoiselle, was once young."
Yvonne patted her cheek gently.
"Age is only in the heart, Madame," she said.
"Non, ma belle," cackled Guégou from his corner. "It's in the joints."
"Tais-toi, Jules," scolded his wife. "What should lovers care about thy joints."
"My joints are my joints," he creaked stubbornly. "When one has ninety years—"
"Ninety!" cried Yvonne. "Monsieur carries his years lightly. I should not have said that he had over sixty."
"Say no more, Mademoiselle," put in Mère Guégou. "You will render him conceited."
Indeed it seemed that the old man had already forgotten his joints, for he poured out another glass of wine and was pledging Yvonne with toothless gayety.