three years past, and I became aware of a smell of some dreadful thing
burning. Beneath the arbour I perceived a glowing spark which seemed to
bear a certain relation to an oval whitish patch suggesting the front of
a shirt. It was Amedee, at ease, smoking his cigarette after the day's
work and convinced that he was singing.

"Pour qu'j'finisse
Mon service
Au Tonkin je suis parti--
Ah! quel beau pays, mesdames!
C'est l'paradis des p'tites femmes!"

I rose from the chair on my little porch, to go to bed; but I was
reminded of something, and called to him.

"Monsieur?" his voice came briskly.

"How often do you see your friend, Jean Ferret, the gardener of
Quesnay?"

"Frequently, monsieur. To-morrow morning I could easily carry a message
if--"

"That is precisely what I do not wish. And you may as well not mention
me at all when you meet him."

"It is understood. Perfectly."

"If it is well understood, there will be a beautiful present for a good
maitre d'hotel some day."