She misunderstood him. Her eyes flashed.
"It is the first time in my life—I swear it." She held up her two forefingers crossed and kissed them. "Père Paragot! ah non! neither he nor another. I am an honest girl, though you may not think so."
"My good Blanquette," said he kindly, taking her scarred coarse hand in his, "you are as honest a girl as ever breathed, and if Père Paragot didn't let you put your sleepy little head on his shoulder he must have been a stonier hearted old curmudgeon than you have given one to believe."
So he soothed her and explained, while our two fellow passengers, a wizened old peasant and his wife, regarded them stolidly.
"Mon Dieu, it is hot," said Blanquette. "Don't you think so, Asticot? I wish I had a fan."
"I will make you one out of the paper the fowl is wrapped in," said Paragot.
Not half a goose, but a cold fowl minus half a wing had been our supplementary guerdon. Decently enveloped in a sheet of newspaper it lay on her lap. When he had divested it of its covering, which he proceeded to twist into a fan, it still lay on her lap, looking astonishingly naked.
At the next station the old peasant and his wife got out and we had the compartment to ourselves. Blanquette produced from her pocket a handkerchief knotted over an enormous lump.
"These are the takings, Monsieur. It looks small; but they changed the coppers into silver at the restaurant for me."
"It's a fortune," laughed my master.