“I make no confections,” she said, “but I have lived on the juices of good meats, well prepared, with such vegetables as the Lord lets grow in this poor region, many years, and behold I am old and still able to do his service!”

“And a little good wine, too, occasionally—­eh, madame?” added Major Favraud, impertinently.

“When attainable, Favraud.  You drank good wine yourself, when you were here, and I partook with you moderately.  But I buy none such.  I drown not, Clarence-like, even in butts of malmsey, my hard-earned gold; and I own I am not fond of the juices of the muscadine of your hills;” and she tapped her snuffbox.

“You are going to hear her talk now,” whispered Favraud; “that is a sign—­equal to General Finistere’s—­the snuffbox tapping, I mean.  The oracle is beginning to arouse!  Come! let me stir her further!” and he inclined his head before her.

“I’ll tell you what, madame, you must take a little cognac to keep off the chills of age.  I have some of the best, and will send you down a demijohn, if you say the word; and in return you shall pray for me.  I am a great sinner, Miss Harz thinks.”

“Miss Harz is correct; and we will both promise you our prayers.  She, too, is Catholic, I hope.  No?  I regret so, for her own sake; but your brandy I reject, Victor; remember that, and offend me not by sending it.  You must not forget the fate of your malvoisie.”

“Ah, madame, that was cruel! but I have forgiven you long since.  I think, however, that the grape-vines bore better that year than ever before—­thus watered, or wined, I mean.—­Just think of it, Miss Harz!  To pour good wine round the roots of a Fontainebleau grape, rather than replenish the springs of life with it!  Was there ever waste like that since Cleopatra dissolved her pearl in vinegar?”

“Miss Harz will agree with me that a principle that could not resist the gift of a dozen bottles of choice wine was little worth.  Of such stuff was made not the fathers of your Revolution.  But stay, there is an explanation due to me, yet unrendered,” she pursued.  “I am a puzzled bourgeoise, I confess,” she said, shaking her head.  “Come, Favraud, explain.  Who is this young lady?”

“A bourgeoise also,” I replied for him, anxious to turn the tide of conversation into another channel for some reasons.  “I had thought you an expatriated marquise, at least, madame!” I continued.  “As for me, I am simply a governess.”

“It is my glory, mademoiselle, to have been of that class to which belonged Madame Roland herself, and which represented that juste milieu which maintained the balance of society in France.  When the dregs of the bas peuple rose to the surface of the revolution, commenced by the sound middle classes, we regarded the scum of aristocracy as the smaller of the two evils.  As soon as the true element had ceased to assert itself in France, I fled forever from a land of bloodshed and misrule, and took shelter under the broad wing of your boasted American eagle.”