It was time for dinner; but as they passed the monkey-cage, Madame Ewans noticed such a crush of eager spectators squeezing in between the baize curtains on the platform in front that she could not resist the temptation to follow suit.  Besides which, she was drawn by a motive of curiosity, having been told that monkeys were not insensible to female charms.  But the performance diverted her thoughts in another direction.  She saw an unhappy poodle in red breeches shot as a deserter in spite of his honest looks.  Tears rose to her eyes, she was so sensitive, so susceptible to the glamour of the stage!

“Yes, it’s quite true,” she sobbed; “yes, poor soldiers have been shot before now just for going off without leave to stand by their mother’s death-bed or for smacking a bullying officer’s face.”

Some old refrain of Beranger she had heard working folks sing in her plebeian childhood rose to her memory and intensified her emotion.  She told the children the lamentable tale of the canine deserter’s pitiful doom, and made them feel quite sad.

No sooner were they outside the place, however, than an itinerant toy-seller with a paper helmet on his head set them splitting with laughter.

Dinner must be thought of.  She knew of a tavern by the river-side where you could eat a fry of fish in the arbour, and thither they betook themselves.

The lady from Paris and the landlady of the inn greeted each other with a wink of the eye.  It was a long time since she had seen Madame; she had no idea who the two young gentlemen were, but anyway they were dear little angels.  Madame Ewans ordered the meal like a connoisseur, with a knowing air and all the proper restaurant tricks of phrase.  All three sat silent, agreeably tired and enjoying the sensation, she with her bonnet-strings flying loose, the boys leaning back against the trellis.  They could see the river and its grassy banks through an archway of wild vine.  Their thoughts flowed softly on like the current before their eyes, while the dusk and cool of the evening wrapped them in a soft caress.  For the first time Jean Servien, as he gazed at Madame Ewans, felt the thrill of a woman’s sweet proximity.

Presently, warmed by a trifle of wine and water he had drunk, he became wholly lost in his dreams—­visions of all sorts of elegant, preposterous, chivalrous things.  His head was still full of these fancies when he was dragged back to the fair-ground by Madame Ewans, who could never have enough of sight-seeing and noise.  Illuminated arches spanned at regular intervals the broad-walk, lined on either side by stalls and trestle-tables, but the lateral avenues gloomed dark and deserted under the tall black trees.  Loving couples paced them slowly, while the music from the shows sounded muffled by the distance.  They were still there when a band of fifes, trombones, and trumpets struck up close by, playing a popular polka tune.  The very first bar put Madame Ewans on her mettle.  She drew Jean to her, settled his hands in hers and lifting him off the ground with a jerk of the hip, began dancing with him.  She swung and swayed to the lilt of the music; but the boy was awkward and embarrassed, and only hindered his partner, dragging back and bumping against her.  She threw him off roughly and impatiently, saying sharply: