“What am I going to do?” he cried, rising in an outburst of anger.  Then he sat down in despair.  There was nothing to do.  The fact was obvious that Francine was an heiress, possessed of the greatest fortune in the memory of Keragouil.  There was nothing to do, or rather, there was manifestly but one way open, and the Comte resolved on the spot to take it.  He must have back the lottery tickets, though it meant a Comtesse de Bonzag.

Fortunately for him, Francine knew nothing of the arrival of the paper.  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.

“No, Francine.”

“Not M’sieur le Cure?  Who, then?”

“It is for you, Francine.  Sit down.”

“I?  I, M’sieur le Comte?”

“Sit down.  I wish it.”

Francine took three steps backward and so as to command the exit, stopped and stared at her master, with mingled amazement and distrust.

“My dear Francine,” continued the Comte, “I am tired of eating alone.  It is bad for the digestion.  And I am bored.  I have need of society.  So sit down.”

“M’sieur orders it?”

“I ask it as a favor, Francine.”

Francine, with open eyes, advanced doubtfully, seating herself nicely on the chair, more astonished than complimented, and more alarmed than pleased.

“Ah, that is nicer!” said the Comte, with an approving nod.  “How have I endured it all these years!  Francine, you may help yourself to the wine.”

The astonished maid-of-all-work, who had swallowed a spoon of soup with great discomfort, sprang up, all in a tremble, stammering with defiant virtue: 

“M’sieur le Comte does not forget that I am an honest woman!”

“No, my dear Francine; I am certain of it.  So sit down in peace.  I will tell you the situation.”

Francine hesitated, then, reassured by the devotion he gave to his soup, settled once more in her chair.