madame.

"Yes, and then it's worse yet. Fire behind a grated window of mica.
Flame in prison. Depressing! Ah, those fine fires of faggots and dry
vine stocks out in the country. They smell good and they cast a golden
glow over everything. Modern life has set that in order. The luxury of
the poorest of peasants is impossible in Paris except for people who
have copious incomes."

The bell-ringer entered. Every hair of his bristling moustache was
beaded with a globule of snow. With his knitted bonnet, his sheepskin
coat, his fur mittens and goloshes, he resembled a Samoyed, fresh from
the pole.

"I won't shake hands," he said, "for I am covered with grease and oil.
What weather! Just think, I've been scouring the bells ever since early
this morning. I'm worried about them."

"Why?"

"Why! You know very well that frost contracts the metal and sometimes
cracks or breaks it. Some of these bitterly cold winters we have lost a
good many, because bells suffer worse than we do in bad weather.--Wife,
is there any hot water in the other room, so I can wash up?"

"Can't we help you set the table?" Des Hermies proposed.

But the good woman refused. "No, no, sit down. Dinner is ready."

"Mighty appetizing," said Durtal, inhaling the odour of a peppery