“Let us see.”

She took the candle and they passed into the kitchen, which, like the dining-room, was a laboratory, a stable where Saniel kept in cages pigs from India and rabbits for his experiments, and where Joseph heaped pell-mell the things that were in his way, without paying any attention to the stove in which there never had been a fire.  But their search was vain; there was everything in this kitchen except fire-wood.

“Do you value these boxes?” she asked, caressing a little pig that she had taken in her arms.

“Not at all; they enclosed the perfumes and tonics, but they are useless now.”

They returned to the office, Saniel carrying the boxes.

“We will set the table here,” she said, gayly, for Saniel told her that the dining-room was uninviting, as it was a small bacteriological laboratory.

The table was set by Phillis, who went and came, walking about with a gracefulness that Saniel admired.

“You are doing nothing,” she said.

“I am watching you and thinking.”

“And the result of these thoughts?”

“It is that you have a fund of good-humor and gayety, an exuberance of life, that would enliven a man condemned to death.”

“And what would have become of us, I should like to know, if I had been melancholy and discouraged when we lost my poor papa?  He was joy itself, singing all day long, laughing and joking.  He brought me up, and I am like him.  Mamma, as you know, is melancholy and nervous, looking on the dark side, and Florentin is like her.  I obtained a place for Florentin, I found work for mamma and for myself.  We all took courage, and gradually we became calm.”

She looked at him with a smile that said: 

“Will you let me do for you what I have done for others?”

But she did not speak these words.  On the contrary, she immediately endeavored to destroy the impression which she believed her words had made upon him.

“Go and bring some water,” she said, “and I will light the fire.”

When he returned, carrying a carafe, the fire blazed brightly, lighting the whole room.  Phillis was seated at the desk, writing.

“What are you doing?” he asked in surprise.

“I am writing our menu, for you know we are not going to sit down at the table like the bourgeois.  How do you like it?”

She read it to him.

“Sardines de Nantes.”

“Cuisse de dinde rotie.”

“Terrine de pate de foie gras aux truffes du Perigord.”

“But this is a feast.”

“Did you think that I would offer you a fricandeau au jus?”

She continued: 

“Fromage de Brie.”

“Choux a la creme vanillge.”

“Pomme de Normandie.”

“Wine.”

“Ah!  Voila!  What wine?  I do not wish to deceive you.  Let us put, ’Wine from the wine-seller at the corner.’  And now we will sit down.”