“Dear, dear!  What dreadful rain! isn’t it?  It seems to be influencing both of you, for you look out of sorts.”

They protested, however, that such was not the case, doing their utmost to clear her mind of the notion.  And as Rosalie now made her appearance with an immense dish, Monsieur Rambaud exclaimed, as though to veil his emotion:  “What did I say!  Still another surprise!”

The surprise of the day was some vanilla cream, one of the cook’s triumphs.  And thus it was a sight to see her broad, silent grin, as she deposited her burden on the table.  Jeanne shouted and clapped her hands.

“I knew it, I knew it!  I saw the eggs in the kitchen!”

“But I have no more appetite,” declared Monsieur Rambaud, with a look of despair.  “I could not eat any of it!”

Thereupon Rosalie became grave, full of suppressed wrath.  With a dignified air, she remarked:  “Oh, indeed!  A cream which I made specially for you!  Well, well! just try not to eat any of it—­yes, try!”

He had to give in and accept a large helping of the cream.  Meanwhile the Abbe remained thoughtful.  He rolled up his napkin and rose before the dessert had come to an end, as was frequently his custom.  For a little while he walked about, with his head hanging down; and when Helene in her turn quitted the table, he cast at Monsieur Rambaud a look of intelligence, and led the young woman into the bedroom.[*] The door being left open behind them, they could almost immediately afterwards be heard conversing together, though the words which they slowly exchanged were indistinguishable.

[*] Helene’s frequent use of her bedroom may seem strange to the
    English reader who has never been in France.  But in the petite
    bourgeoisie the bedchamber is often the cosiest of the whole
    suite of rooms, and whilst indoors, when not superintending her
    servant, it is in the bedroom that madame will spend most of her
    time.  Here, too, she will receive friends of either sex, and, the
    French being far less prudish than ourselves, nobody considers
    that there is anything wrong or indelicate in the practice.

“Oh, do make haste!” said Jeanne to Monsieur Rambaud, who seemed incapable of finishing a biscuit.  “I want to show you my work.”

However, he evinced no haste, though when Rosalie began to clear the table it became necessary for him to leave his chair.

“Wait a little! wait a little!” he murmured, as the child strove to drag him towards the bedroom, And, overcome with embarrassment and timidity, he retreated from the doorway.  Then, as the Abbe raised his voice, such sudden weakness came over him that he had to sit down again at the table.  From his pocket he drew a newspaper.

“Now,” said he, “I’m going to make you a little coach.”