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."
Francine, more and more astonished, proceeded to place on the table a
plate, a knife and a fork.
"M'sieur le Cure is coming?" she said, drawing up a chair.
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