“These thin little blondes, they do not last long.  That one was like a rose when I first saw her. Pauvre enfant!” And he looked after her with a compassionate glance.

“She seems—­different,” said Peter.  “It is not well with her?”

“Alas, no!  She is from the provinces, Monsieur, come to Paris to earn more.  And so she wearied her ami.  You know him, Monsieur; he is a restless man, quickly tiring—­that sculptor!  Also, he feared she would fall sick upon his hands—­you see how frail she is, and he abhors all that is not robust.”  And Henri made an expressive gesture.  He added:  “She is of the sort that love, Monsieur; and, you understand, that is fatal!”

“And how does she manage now?” asked Peter.

Henri shrugged significantly.  Peter drummed on the table and scowled.  A little girl, from the provinces!  One understood now how she had fallen into Dangeau’s hands, and how, inevitably, he had tired, and tossed her aside like a wilted flower.  And now she was facing slow starvation—­Oh, damn!

Peter slipped some change into Henri’s palm.  “You are a man of sense, Henri.  Also, I see that you have a good heart,” said he.  “Now we must see what we can do for this poor little Mademoiselle, you and I. You will place before her the best the house affords—­I leave that to you.  And when she protests you will say to her:  ’Your venerable godfather has arranged for it, Mademoiselle.  His orders are, that you come here, seat yourself, tap once with your forefinger upon the table,—­and your orders will be obeyed.’”

“And if she questions further, Monsieur?”

“Explain that you obey orders, but do not know her godfather,” said Peter, gravely.

“Trust me, Monsieur!” cried the delighted Henri.  And from that moment the kindly fellow adored Peter Champneys.

The little game began the next day.  Denise gave her tiny order; Henri came back with a loaded tray, whose savory contents he placed before her.  Out of the corner of his eye Peter could see the girl’s astonished face when Henri politely insisted that the meal was hers—­that her venerable godfather had ordered it for her!  She looked timidly and fearfully around; but nobody was paying the slightest attention to her, and after deftly arranging the dishes, Henri had whisked himself off.  She waited for a few minutes; but Henri hadn’t come back.  And then, because she was almost famished, she ate what had been given her.  Peter felt his eyes blur.

Henri came back to her presently with wine.  He dusted the bottle lovingly, and filled her glass with a flourish.  She looked up with a tremulous smile: 

“My godfather’s order, Henri?”

“Your venerable godfather’s order, Mademoiselle,” he replied sedately.  When she had finished her dinner, he glibly, and with an expressionless countenance repeated Peter’s instructions:  she was to come in, seat herself, tap with her forefinger, and give her orders, which would be instantly obeyed!  No, he did not know her godfather.  Nor did Monsieur le patron.  No, he might not even take the sous she offered him:  all, all, had been arranged, Mademoiselle!