On this particular night when Papa Patoux returned to the bosom of his family, he, though a dull-witted man generally, did not fail to note the dove-like spirit of calm that reigned over his entire household.  His wife’s fat face was agreeably placid,—­the children were in an orderly mood, and as he sat down to the neatly spread supper-table, he felt more convinced than ever that things were exceedingly well managed for him in this best of all possible worlds.  Pausing in the act of conveying a large spoonful of steaming soup to his mouth he enquired—­

“And Monseigneur, the Cardinal Bonpre,—­has he also been served?”

Madame Patoux opened her round eyes wide at him.

“But certainly!  Dost thou think, my little cabbage, thou wouldst get thy food before Monseigneur?  That would be strange indeed!”

Papa Patoux swallowed his ladleful of soup in abashed silence.

“It was a beautiful day in the fields,” he presently observed—­ “There was a good smell in the earth, as if violets were growing,—­ and late in the autumn though it is, there was a skylark yet singing.  It was a very blue heaven, too, as blue as the robe of the Virgin, with clouds as white as little angels clinging to it.”

Madame nodded.  Some people might have thought Papa Patoux inclined to be poetical,—­she did not.  Henri and Babette listened.

“The robe of Our Lady is always blue,” said Babette.

“And the angels’ clothes are always white,” added Henri.

Madame Patoux said nothing, but passed a second helping of soup all round.  Papa Patoux smiled blandly on his offspring.

“Just so,” he averred—­“Blue and white are the colours of the sky, my little ones,—­and Our Lady and the angels live in the sky!”

“I wonder where?” muttered Henri with his mouth half full.  “The sky is nothing but miles and miles of air, and in the air there are millions and millions of planets turning round and round, larger than our world,—­ever so much larger,—­and nobody knows which is the largest of them all!”

“It is as thou sayest, my son,” said Patoux confidently—­“Nobody knows which is the largest of them all, but whichever it may be, that largest of them all belongs to Our Lady and the angels.”

Henri looked at Babette, but Babette was munching watercress busily, and did not return his enquiring glances.  Papa Patoux, quite satisfied with his own reasoning, continued his supper in an amiable state of mind.

“What didst thou serve to Monseigneur, my little one?” he asked his wife with a coaxing and caressing air, as though she were some delicate and dainty sylph of the woodlands, instead of being the lady of massive proportions which she undoubtedly was,—­“Something of delicacy and fine flavour, doubtless?”

Madame Patoux shook her head despondingly.

“He would have nothing of that kind,” she replied—­“Soup maigre, and afterwards nothing but bread, dried figs, and apples to finish.  Ah, Heaven!  What a supper for a Cardinal-Archbishop!  It is enough to make one weep!”