“Ah-h,” breathed Paulette again. “It is well that those two reasons fitted so conveniently, monsieur.” Victor laughed, opened his newspaper and began reading bits of news to Lucie. Pom Pom lay on the seat between them, gazing with fascinated eyes at these new scenes through which he was passing. At last came their landing place, and they went ashore. Victor led the way through this and that street till they stopped before a small inn set in a garden. It bore a sign which set forth the fact that this was the restaurant Honoré, kept by one Pierre Blondot. Victor went in, the others following. A gray-haired man came forward. “Do I address the father of my comrade Honoré Blondot?” said Victor in his best manner. “_Mon Dieu!_” cried the man, “you are the friend of our boy? He is well? You bear no bad news?” “He is very well, and I promised to come and tell you this with my own lips. In passing I will say also that I have brought these ladies to have breakfast in your so charming establishment, of whose merits I have heard many times from my friend Honoré.” “_Bien, bien!_ That is very well, as it should be. I welcome you and your friends. Marie, Marie, come at once. Here is a pleasant surprise for us. It is my wife that I call, my friends. It is the mother of Honoré who is coming.” A stout, trim, little dumpling of a woman came bustling forward. “What is this? What is this, Pierre?” Swelling with importance the good host with a wave of the hands included the guests. “This monsieur, Marie, what think you? he arrives on his _permissionaire_, is it not so, monsieur? He comes direct to us with a message from our son, his comrade. Is this not a fine thing, that he comes to us?” “Oh, monsieur, you have seen him, you know him? The little one, he remembered to send us a message. He is well? He is not unhappy?” “He is very well, madame, and he is quite content. We are all content after the victory. Paris is saved.” “I will so embrace you, monsieur, for it is you with the others who have done this great thing,” said mine host tearfully, as he laid his big hands on Victor’s shoulders and kissed him on each cheek. “I give you my thanks, my child.” “Ah, but monsieur, madame, I have done nothing. I am but a very small atom,” protested Victor. “Without the atoms there could not be a thing entire,” said their host. “But, Marie, we are forgetting the ladies. A thousand pardons, mademoiselle, madame. I beg you will come in and be seated. Breakfast, Marie, and the best, the best.” At these words Victor turned to give Paulette a sly wink, while she, quite embarrassed at being one of the party at table, and wondering if she would be spared committing a lapse in table manners, seated herself in the place indicated by Pierre. There were no other guests and the whole establishment seemed to be run by the goodman and his wife, a fact which Lucie noted and whispered to Paulette.