"And you—what is there for you? Let me put the pillow behind you, mignonne. And now to open the bottle! I am not an expert at the game, but—ah! it is coming. Prepare yourself for the bang.... Tiens, it is of a gentle disposition. But no doubt it will taste just as good. Sapristi, how it sparkles!"
He bore a glassful to her side, and their gaze turned together to the likeness on the wall.
"Well, little wife, the usual toast. To our boy, our darling Jean! May God bless him."
"May God bless him," breathed the mother. They looked at the photograph silently for a moment. "I wonder if he is thinking of us?" she murmured. "Perhaps he is fancying us like this?"
"I venture to say so," replied Picq. "He knows we should never forget his birthday; he knows that."
"If—he is alive," she said in a whisper.
"Ah, why should we doubt it?" His arm encouraged her. "How often we have alarmed ourselves! And always he was alive. Take another sip, mignonne. It is a sound wine, hein? I should not be surprised if on the Boulevard they charge fifteen francs for such a wine."
"You must go and sit down now and have your supper."
"Not for a minute or two. The bouquet is so excellent I can't take my nose out of the glass. And I think I am more thirsty than hungry, after all."
"Petit bonhomme, petit bonhomme," she faltered pitifully.