"With eggs at twelve francs the dozen?" said Madame decidedly. "One may
not."

On any other matter M'sieur would probably have taken his wife's decision
as final, but he had a consuming passion for _crêpes_, and was moreover a
diplomat.

"_La vie chère!_" he said sadly; "it cuts at the very vitals of
hospitality. With what pleasure I could have presented myself to our
amiable neighbours, the Sergeant-Major Coghlan and his estimable wife, and
said, 'It is the custom in France for all the world to eat _crêpes_ on
Mardi Gras. Accept these, then, made by Madame Bonneton herself, who in the
making of this national delicacy is an incomparable artist.' But when eggs
are twelve francs the dozen"--he shook his head gloomily--"generous
sentiments must perish."

Madame perceptibly softened.

"Perhaps, after all, I might persuade that miser Dobelle to sell me a few
at ten francs the dozen," she murmured; and M'sieur knew that diplomacy had
won another notable victory.

Curiously enough, at this precise moment the tenants of the _premier étage_
of 10 _bis_, rue de la République, were also engaged in a gastronomic
discussion.

"If almanacs in France count as they do in Aldershot," said Mrs. Coghlan,
"to-morrow will be Shrove Tuesday."

"An' what av it?" demanded Sergeant-Major Coghlan of the British Army.