"Yes," said Rose Mignon, "his foot caught in a trap door, and he's got
a fearful sprain. If only you could hear him swearing, with his leg tied
up and laid out on a chair!"

Thereupon everybody mourned over Bordenave's absence. No one ever gave
a good supper without Bordenave. Ah well, they would try and do without
him, and they were already talking about other matters when a burly
voice was heard:

"What, eh, what? Is that the way they're going to write my obituary
notice?"

There was a shout, and all heads were turned round, for it was indeed
Bordenave. Huge and fiery-faced, he was standing with his stiff leg
in the doorway, leaning for support on Simonne Cabiroche's shoulder.
Simonne was for the time being his mistress. This little creature had
had a certain amount of education and could play the piano and talk
English. She was a blonde on a tiny, pretty scale and so delicately
formed that she seemed to bend under Bordenave's rude weight. Yet she
was smilingly submissive withal. He postured there for some moments, for
he felt that together they formed a tableau.

"One can't help liking ye, eh?" he continued. "Zounds, I was afraid I
should get bored, and I said to myself, 'Here goes.'"

But he interrupted himself with an oath.

"Oh, damn!"

Simonne had taken a step too quickly forward, and his foot had just felt