all sorts of strange rubbish, which not even a rag-picker would have cared for.  His chief love, however, was for pictures; as he sauntered along he would seize on all the stray papers that had served as wrappers for chocolate or cakes of soap, and on which were black men, palm-trees, dancing-girls, or clusters of roses.  The tops of old broken boxes, decorated with figures of languid, blonde ladies, the glazed prints and silver paper which had once contained sugar-sticks and had been thrown away at the neighboring fairs, were great windfalls that filled his bosom with pride.  All such booty was speedily transferred to his pockets, the choicer articles being enveloped in a fragment of an old newspaper.  And on Sunday, if Rosalie had a moment’s leisure between the preparation of a sauce and the tending of the joint, he would exhibit his pictures to her.  They were hers if she cared for them; only as the paper around them was not always clean he would cut them out, a pastime which greatly amused him.  Rosalie got angry, as the shreds of paper blew about even into her plates; and it was a sight to see with what rustic cunning he would at last gain possession of her scissors.  At times, however, in order to get rid of him, she would give them up without any asking.

Meanwhile some brown sauce would be simmering on the fire.  Rosalie watched it, wooden spoon in hand; while Zephyrin, his head bent and his breadth of shoulder increased by his epaulets, continued cutting out the pictures.  His head was so closely shaven that the skin of his skull could be seen; and the yellow collar of his tunic yawned widely behind, displaying his sunburnt neck.  For a quarter of an hour at a time neither would utter a syllable.  When Zephyrin raised his head, he watched Rosalie while she took some flour, minced some parsley, or salted and peppered some dish, his eyes betraying the while intense interest.  Then, at long intervals, a few words would escape him: 

“By Jove! that does smell nice!”

The cook, busily engaged, would not vouchsafe an immediate reply; but after a lengthy silence she perhaps exclaimed:  “You see, it must simmer properly.”

Their talk never went beyond that.  They no longer spoke of their native place even.  When a reminiscence came to them a word sufficed, and they chuckled inwardly the whole afternoon.  This was pleasure enough, and by the time Rosalie turned Zephyrin out of doors both of them had enjoyed ample amusement.

“Come, you will have to go!  I must wait on madame,” said she; and restoring him his shako and sabre, she drove him out before her, afterwards waiting on madame with cheeks flushed with happiness; while he walked back to barracks, dangling his arms, and almost intoxicated by the goodly odors of thyme and laurel which still clung to him.