They have moved so noiselessly that I have not
even heard them. The sketch is nearly finished; and so, remembering the
good madame, and the Roquefort, and the olives, and the many times I
have kept her waiting, I wash my brushes at once, throw my traps into
the boat, and pull back through the winding turn, Francois taking the
mill-race, and in the swiftest part springing to the bank and towing
Lucette, who sits in the stern, her white skirts tucked around her
dainty feet.
"_Sacre!_ He is here. _C'est merveilleux!_ Why did you come?"
"Because you sent for me, madame, and I am hungry."
"_Mon Dieu!_ He is hungry, and no chicken!"
It is true. The chicken was served that morning to another tramp for
breakfast, and madame had forgotten all about it, and had ransacked the
settlement for its mate. She was too honest a cook to chase another into
the frying-pan.
But there was a _filet_ with mushrooms, and a most surprising salad of
chicory fresh from the garden, and the pease were certain, and the
Roquefort and the olives beyond question. All this she tells me as I
walk past the table covered with a snow-white cloth and spread under the
grape-vines overlooking the stream, with the trees standing against the
sky, their long shadows wrinkling down into the water.
I enter the summer kitchen built out into the garden, which also covers
the old well, let down the bucket, and then, taking the clean crash
towel from its hook, place the basin on the bench in the sunlight, and
plunge my head into the cool water.
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