"We must work," said Blanquette, "or what would become of us?"
Paragot finished his coffee and bread and handed the bowl to Blanquette who nursed it in her lap, while he settled himself snugly beneath the bedclothes. The autumn rain beat against the dirty little window and the wind howled through chinks and crevices, filling the room with cold damp air. I drew the old blanket which I had brought from my manger-bed closer round my shoulders. Blanquette with her peasant's indifference to change of temperature sat unconcerned in her thin cotton dress.
"But what will become of us?" she repeated.
"I shall continue to exist," said he.
"But I, what shall I do?"
"You can fill my porcelain pipe, and let me think," replied Paragot.
She rose in her calm obedient way and, having carried out his orders, reseated herself at the foot of the bed.
"You are the most patient creature alive," said he, "otherwise you would not be contented to go on playing the zither, which is not a very exhilarating instrument, my little Blanquette. I am not patient, and I am not going to play the violin again for a million years after tonight, and the violin is superior to the zither."
Blanquette regarded him uncomprehending.
"If I were a king I would live in a palace and you should be my housekeeper. But as I am a ragged vagabond too idle to work, I am puzzled as to the disposal of you."