_pot-au-feu_, perfumed with a symphony of vegetables, of which the
keynote was celery.

"Everybody sit down," said Carhaix, reappearing with a clean blouse on,
his face shining of soap and water.

They sat down. The glowing stove purred. Durtal felt the sudden
relaxation of a chilly soul dipped into a warm bath: at Carhaix's one
was so far from Paris, so remote from the epoch....

The lodge was poor, but cosy, comfortable, cordial. The very table, set
country style, the polished glasses, the covered dish of sweet butter,
the cider pitcher, the somewhat battered lamp casting reflections of
tarnished silver on the great cloth, contributed to the atmosphere of
home.

"Next time I come I must stop at the English store and buy a jar of that
reliable orange marmalade," said Durtal to himself, for by common
consent with Des Hermies he never dined with the bell-ringer without
furnishing a share of the provisions. Carhaix set out a _pot-au-feu_ and
a simple salad and poured his cider. Not to be an expense to him, Des
Hermies and Durtal brought wine, coffee, liquor, desserts, and managed
so that their contributions would pay for the soup and the beef which
would have lasted for several days if the Carhaixes had eaten alone.

"This time I did it!" said Mme. Carhaix triumphantly, serving to each in
turn a mahogany-colour bouillon whose iridescent surface was looped with
rings of topaz.

It was succulent and unctuous, robust and yet delicate, flavoured as it