At this moment the pretty maid announced, “Monsieur and Mesdemoiselles Lantz,” and Madame Roger arose hastily to receive the newcomers.  Lieutenant-Colonel Lantz, of the Engineer Corps, was with Captain Roger when he died in the trench before Mamelon Vert; and might have been at that time pleasant to look upon, in his uniform with its black velvet breastplate; but, having been promoted some time ago to the office, he had grown aged, leaning over the plans and draughts on long tables covered with rules and compasses.  With a cranium that looked like a picked bird, his gray, melancholy imperial, his stooping shoulders, which shortened still more his tightly buttoned military coat, there was nothing martial in his appearance.  With his head full of whims, no fortune, and three daughters to marry, the poor Colonel, who put on only two or three times a year, for official solemnities, his uniform, which he kept in camphor, dined every Sunday night with Madame Roger, who liked this estimable man because he was her husband’s best friend, and had invited him with his three little girls, who looked exactly alike, with their turned-up noses, florid complexions, and little, black, bead-like eyes, always so carefully dressed that one involuntarily compared them to three pretty cakes prepared for some wedding or festive occasion.  They sat down at the table.

Madame Roger employed an excellent cook, and for the first time in his life Amedee ate a quantity of good things, even more exquisite than Mamma Gerard’s little fried dishes.  It was really only a very comfortable and nice dinner, but to the young man it was a revelation of unsuspected pleasures.  This decorated table, this cloth that was so soft when he put his hand upon it; these dishes that excited and satisfied the appetite; these various flavored wines which, like the flowers, were fragrant—­what new and agreeable sensations!  They were quickly and silently waited upon by the pretty maid.  Maurice, seated opposite his mother, presided over the repast with his elegant gayety.  Madame Roger’s pale face would light up with a smile at each of his good-natured jokes, and the three young ladies would burst into discreet little laughs, all in unison, and even the sorrowful Colonel would arouse from his torpor.

He became animated after his second glass of burgundy, and was very entertaining.  He spoke of the Crimean campaign; of that chivalrous war when the officers of both armies, enemies to each other, exchanged politenesses and cigars during the suspension of arms.  He told fine military anecdotes, and Madame Roger, seeing her son’s face excited with enthusiasm at these heroic deeds, became gloomy at once.  Maurice noticed it first.

“Take care, Colonel,” said he.  “You will frighten mamma, and she will imagine at once that I still wish to enter Saint-Cyr.  But I assure you, little mother, you may be tranquil.  Since you wish it, your respectful and obedient son will become a lawyer without clients, who will paint daubs during his spare moments.  In reality, I should much prefer a horse and a sword and a squadron of hussars.  But no matter!  The essential thing is not to give mamma any trouble.”