On this particular night when Papa Patoux returned to the bosom of
his family, he, though a dull-witted man generally, did not fail to
note the dove-like spirit of calm that reigned over his entire
household. His wife's fat face was agreeably placid,--the children
were in an orderly mood, and as he sat down to the neatly spread
supper-table, he felt more convinced than ever that things were
exceedingly well managed for him in this best of all possible
worlds. Pausing in the act of conveying a large spoonful of steaming
soup to his mouth he enquired--

"And Monseigneur, the Cardinal Bonpre,--has he also been served?"

Madame Patoux opened her round eyes wide at him.

"But certainly! Dost thou think, my little cabbage, thou wouldst get
thy food before Monseigneur? That would be strange indeed!"

Papa Patoux swallowed his ladleful of soup in abashed silence.

"It was a beautiful day in the fields," he presently observed--
"There was a good smell in the earth, as if violets were growing,--
and late in the autumn though it is, there was a skylark yet
singing. It was a very blue heaven, too, as blue as the robe of the
Virgin, with clouds as white as little angels clinging to it."

Madame nodded. Some people might have thought Papa Patoux inclined
to be poetical,--she did not. Henri and Babette listened.

"The robe of Our Lady is always blue," said Babette.