"Mademoiselle," said Jean, insincerely, "it is the beauty of the spirit that counts."
"You do not mean that, Jean, and yet I like to hear you say it. Moreover, it is more true than you think. I have read; I have travelled; I have thought much upon the vanities of the world. Oh, yes, I have cultivated the graces of the spirit to make up for my lack in other respects. And I was beautiful once, before the smallpox. Can you believe it?"
"She is beautiful still, Jean," broke in the old man. "For me, I find her just the same, the very image of her mother."
"Ah, my good father, if all the young men were like you I should not die an old maid."
"You shall not, Blanchette, you shall not. Notice, Jean Baptiste, only notice what a fine housekeeper she is. Look at the table, the chairs, the windows, the curtains, the stove, even, how proper they are; and the floor--one could eat off it. And what a cook! Confess, Jean, that you have never tasted roast chicken better than that which you are now eating."
"It is true, Monsieur," said Jean, with enthusiasm. "The chicken is perfect, of a tenderness unequalled, of a flavour incomparable."
"But wait," continued the old man, with an air of mystery. "There is better still to come. Blanchette, the dessert. We will surprise our guest. Madame Giroux is a famous cook, but not in the same class with you, my dear."
"There, my father, you have said enough," laughed Blanchette, stopping his mouth with her open palm. "Be still, now, or you will frighten Monsieur Giroux, and he will never come again. Never mind him, Jean; he is only a foolish old man who is blinded by love. You could not be thus blinded, could you, my friend?"
"But the dessert, Blanchette, the dessert. I will say no more if only you will bring it in, instantly."
"Ah, I had forgotten," said Blanchette, going to the cupboard and bringing thence an immense plate of croquignoles of all sizes and shapes, delicately powdered with white sugar.