recipes, with which he experimented with much success.  He was often aware that she was standing behind his shoulder, prying into the pans.  If he wanted a spoon or a dish, she would hand it to him.  The heat of the fire would bring their blood to their skins; still, nothing in the world would have induced the young man to cease stirring the fatty bouillis which were thickening over the fire while the girl stood gravely by him, discussing the amount of boiling that was necessary.  In the afternoon, when the shop lacked customers, they quietly chatted together for hours at a time.  Lisa sat behind the counter, leaning back, and knitting in an easy, regular fashion; while Quenu installed himself on a big oak block, dangling his legs and tapping his heels against the wood.  They got on wonderfully well together, discussing all sorts of subjects, generally cookery, and then Uncle Gradelle and the neighbours.  Lisa also amused the young man with stories, just as though he were a child.  She knew some very pretty ones—­some miraculous legends, full of lambs and little angels, which she narrated in a piping voice, with all her wonted seriousness.  If a customer happened to come in, she saved herself the trouble of moving by asking Quenu to get the required pot of lard or box of snails.  And at eleven o’clock they went slowly up to bed as on the previous night.  As they closed their doors, they calmly repeated the words: 

“Good night, Mademoiselle Lisa.”

“Good night, Monsieur Quenu.”

One morning Uncle Gradelle was struck dead by apoplexy while preparing a galantine.  He fell forward, with his face against the chopping-block.  Lisa did not lose her self-possession.  She remarked that the dead man could not be left lying in the middle of the kitchen, and had the body removed into a little back room where Gradelle had slept.  Then she arranged with the assistants what should be said.  It must be given out that the master had died in his bed; otherwise the whole district would be disgusted, and the shop would lose its customers.  Quenu helped to carry the dead man away, feeling quite confused, and astonished at being unable to shed any tears.  Presently, however, he and Lisa cried together.  Quenu and his brother Florent were the sole heirs.  The gossips of the neighbourhood credited old Gradelle with the possession of a considerable fortune.  However, not a single crown could be discovered.  Lisa seemed very restless and uneasy.  Quenu noticed how pensive she became, how she kept on looking around her from morning till night, as though she had lost something.  At last she decided to have a thorough cleaning of the premises, declaring that people were beginning to talk, that the story of the old man’s death had got about, and that it was necessary they should make a great show of cleanliness.  One afternoon, after remaining in the cellar for a couple of hours, whither she herself had gone to wash the salting-tubs, she came up again, carrying something in her apron.  Quenu was just then cutting up a pig’s fry.  She waited till he had finished, talking awhile in an easy, indifferent fashion.  But there was an unusual glitter in her eyes, and she smiled her most charming smile as she told him that she wanted to speak to him.  She led the way upstairs with seeming difficulty, impeded by what she had in her apron, which was strained almost to bursting.