the curé sent him to Laval at his own expense, and now talks of sending
him to Paris."

"To Paris! and for what purpose?"

"Oh! the curé thinks he will make a great painter. He is always painting
during his holidays. I'm sure I can't see the good of it."

"Well, my mother, M. Bois-le-Duc is a very clever man, and whatever he
does is good, but I, for one, have no very high opinion of Eugène
Lacroix."

While this conversation had been going on, Noël McAllister did ample
justice to the good fare his mother set before him. Madame McAllister was
nothing if not practical, and cooking was one of her strong points. Her
_bouillon_, a sort of hotch-potch, was so good that a hungry Esau might
well have bartered his birthright for it. Her pancakes and _galettes_
were marvels of culinary skill.

Noël, having appeased his appetite, sharpened by the salt sea breezes,
and after enjoying a pipe, said, "Now, my mother, I think I shall go out
for a walk and hear the news. I shall not be late."

"Very well, my son. Come back soon," said the old lady, and, as she heard
the door close on Noël, she smiled grimly to herself and muttered,

"The news, eh? The news! That is to say in plain words, Marie Gourdon."