Fortunately for him, Francine knew nothing of the arrival of the paper. Though it was necessary to make haste, there was still time for a compatriot of D'Artagnan. There was, of course, Andoche, the Sapeur-Pompier; but a Bonzag who had had three months' experience with the feminine heart of Paris was not the man to trouble himself over a Sapeur-Pompier. That evening, in the dim dining-room, when Francine arrived with the steaming soup, the Comte, who had waited with a spoon in his fist and a napkin knotted to his neck, plunged valiantly to the issue.
"Ah, what a good smell!" he said, elevating his nose. "Francine, you are the queen of cooks."
"Oh, M'sieur le Comte," Francine stammered, stopping in amazement. "Oh, M'sieur le Comte, thanks."
"Don't thank me; it is I who am grateful."
"Oh, M'sieur!"
"Yes, yes, yes! Francine—"
"What is it, M'sieur le Comte?"
"To-night you may set another cover—opposite me."
"Set another cover?"
"Exactly."