He had feared a surprise, some marauders’ ambush, and he smiled as he replied:  “Good-day, my friend; come in.”  I followed him into a small room with a red tiled floor, in which a small fire was burning, very different to Marchas’ furnace, and he gave me a chair and said:  “What can I do for you?” “Monsieur, allow me first of all to introduce myself”; and I gave him my card, which he took and read half aloud:  “Le Comte de Garens.”

I continued:  “There are eleven of us here, Monsieur l’Abbe, five on picket duty, and six installed at the house of an unknown inhabitant.  The names of the six are:  Garens, myself; Pierre de Marchas, Ludovic de Ponderel, Baron d’Streillis, Karl Massouligny, the painter’s son, and Joseph Herbon, a young musician.  I have come to ask you, in their name and my own, to do us the honor of supping with us.  It is an Epiphany supper, Monsieur le Cure, and we should like to make it a little cheerful.”

The priest smiled and murmured:  “It seems to me to be hardly a suitable occasion for amusing one’s self.”  And I replied:  “We are fighting during the day, monsieur.  Fourteen of our comrades have been killed in a month, and three fell as late as yesterday.  It is war time.  We stake our life at every moment; have we not, therefore, the right to amuse ourselves freely?  We are Frenchmen, we like to laugh, and we can laugh everywhere.  Our fathers laughed on the scaffold!  This evening we should like to cheer ourselves up a little, like gentlemen, and not like soldiers; you understand me, I hope.  Are we wrong?”

He replied quickly:  “You are quite right, my friend, and I accept your invitation with great pleasure.”  Then he called out:  “Hermance!”

An old bent, wrinkled, horrible peasant woman appeared and said:  “What do you want?” “I shall not dine at home, my daughter.”  “Where are you going to dine then?” “With some gentlemen, the hussars.”

I felt inclined to say:  “Bring your servant with you,” just to see Marchas’ face, but I did not venture, and continued:  “Do you know any one among your parishioners, male or female, whom I could invite as well?” He hesitated, reflected, and then said:  “No, I do not know anybody!”

I persisted:  “Nobody!  Come, monsieur, think; it would be very nice to have some ladies, I mean to say, some married couples!  I know nothing about your parishioners.  The baker and his wife, the grocer, the—­the—­the—­watchmaker—­the—­shoemaker—­the—­the druggist with Mrs. Druggist.  We have a good spread and plenty of wine, and we should be enchanted to leave pleasant recollections of ourselves with the people here.”

The priest thought again for a long time, and then said resolutely:  “No, there is nobody.”  I began to laugh.  “By Jove, Monsieur le Cure, it is very annoying not to have an Epiphany queen, for we have the bean.  Come, think.  Is there not a married mayor, or a married deputy mayor, or a married municipal councillor or a schoolmaster?” “No, all the ladies have gone away.”  “What, is there not in the whole place some good tradesman’s wife with her good tradesman, to whom we might give this pleasure, for it would be a pleasure to them, a great pleasure under present circumstances?”