potatoes. It is only a civilian who is ashamed of using his knife
on a potato. Papa Barlasch, they call me."

Without awaiting an invitation he went forward towards the kitchen.
He seemed to know the house by instinct. His progress was
accompanied by a clatter of utensils like that which heralds the
coming of a carrier's cart.

At the kitchen door he stopped and sniffed loudly. There certainly
was a slight odour of burning fat. Papa Barlasch turned and shook
an admonitory finger at the servant, but he said nothing. He looked
round at the highly polished utensils, at the table and floor both
alike scrubbed clean by a vigorous northern arm. And he was kind
enough to nod approval.

"On a campaign," he said to no one in particular, "a little bit of
horse thrust into the cinders on the end of a bayonet--but in times
of peace . . ."

He broke off and made a gesture towards the saucepans which
indicated quite clearly that he was between campaigns--inclined to
good living.

"I am a rude fork," he jerked to Desiree over his shoulder in the
dialect of the Cotes du Nord.

"How long will you be here?" asked Desiree, who was eminently
practical. A billet was a misfortune which Charles Darragon had
hitherto succeeded in warding off. He had some small influence as
an officer of the head-quarters' staff.