"Why is he here?" the woman touched me on the shoulder, and satisfied
herself that I was real.

"The good God is doubtless acquainted with the explanation," said t-d
pleasantly. "Not myself being the--"

"Ah, _mon pauvre_" said this very beautiful sort of woman. "You are going
to be a prisoner here. Everyone of the prisoners has a _marraine_, do you
understand? I am their _marraine_. I love them and look after them. Well,
listen: I will be your _marraine_, too."

I bowed and looked around for something to pledge her in. T-d was
watching. My eyes fell on a huge glass of red pinard. "Yes, drink," said
my captor, with a smile. I raised my huge glass.

"_A la sante de ma marraine charmante!_"

--This deed of gallantry quite won the cook (a smallish, agile Frenchman)
who shovelled several helps of potatoes on my already empty plate. The
tin derby approved also: "That's right, eat, drink, you'll need it later
perhaps." And his knife guillotined another delicious hunk of white
bread.

At last, sated with luxuries, I bade adieu to my _marraine_ and allowed
t-d to conduct me (I going first, as always) upstairs and into a little
den whose interior boasted two mattresses, a man sitting at the table,
and a newspaper in the hands of the man.

"_C'est un Americain_," t-d said by way of introduction. The newspaper