This brings us to the kitchen-stove, which is a marvel.  No massive and extravagant English ranges here!  There is only one kind:  we call it the Coffin and Flower-pot.  The coffin—­small, black, and highly polished—­projects from the wall about four feet, the further end being supported by what looks like an ornamental black flower-pot standing on a pedestal.  The coffin is the oven, and the flower-pot is the stove.  Given a handful of small coal or charcoal, Madame appears capable of keeping it at work all day, and of boiling, baking, or roasting you innumerable dishes.

Then there is the family.  Who or what they all are, and where they all sleep, is a profound mystery.  The family tree is usually headed by a decrepit and ruminant old gentleman in a species of yachting-cap.  He sits behind the stove—­not exactly with one foot in the grave, but with both knees well up against the coffin—­and occasionally offers a mumbled observation of which no one takes the slightest notice.  Sometimes, too, there is an old, a very old, lady.  Probably she is some one’s grandmother, or great-grandmother, but she does not appear to be related to the old gentleman.  At least, they never recognise one another’s existence in any way.

There are also vague people who possess the power of becoming invisible at will.  They fade in and out of the house like wraiths:  their one object in life appears to be to efface themselves as much as possible.  Madame refers to them as “refugies”; this the sophisticated Mr. Cockerell translates, “German spies.”

Next in order come one or two farmhands—­usually addressed as “’Nri!” and “’Seph!” They are not as a rule either attractive in appearance or desirable in character.  Every man in this country, who is a man, is away, as a matter of course, doing a man’s only possible duty under the circumstances.  This leaves ’Nri and ’Seph, who through physical or mental shortcomings are denied the proud privilege, and shamble about in the muck and mud of the farm, leering or grumbling, while Madame exhorts them to further activity from the kitchen door.  They take their meals with the family:  where they sleep no one knows.  External evidence suggests the cow-house.

Then, the family.  First, Angele.  She may be twenty-five, but is more probably fifteen.  She acts as Adjutant to Madame, and rivals her mother as deliverer of sustained and rapid recitative.  She milks the cows, feeds the pigs, and dragoons her young brothers and sisters.  But though she works from morning till night, she has always time for a smiling salutation to all ranks.  She also speaks English quite creditably—­a fact of which Madame is justly proud.  “College!” explains the mother, full of appreciation for an education which she herself has never known, and taps her learned daughter affectionately upon the head.