Left to amuse herself, she gathered a handful of gravel from the path at her side, and took pleasure in letting it fall from her clasped hands like a shower of rain. Zephyrin meantime was raking. On catching sight of madame and her daughter he had slipped on his great-coat, which he had previously hung from the branch of a tree; and in token of respect had stood stock-still, with his rake idle in his hand. Throughout Jeanne’s illness he had come every Sunday as usual; but so great had been the caution with which he had slipped into the kitchen, that Hélène would scarcely have dreamt of his presence had not Rosalie on each occasion been deputed as his messenger to inquire about the invalid’s progress, and convey his condolences. Yes, so ran her comments, he was now laying claim to good manners; Paris was giving him some polish! And at present here he was, leaning on his rake, and mutely addressing Jeanne with a sympathetic nod. As soon as she saw him, her face broke into smiles. “I have been very ill,” she said. “Yes, I know, mademoiselle,” he replied as he placed his hand on his heart. And inspired with the wish to say something pretty or comical, which might serve to enliven the meeting, he added: “You see, your health has been taking a rest. Now it will indulge in a snore.” Jeanne had again gathered up a handful of gravel, while he, perfectly satisfied, and opening his mouth wide from ear to ear in a burst of silent laughter, renewed his raking with all the strength of his arms. As the rake travelled over the gravel a regular, strident sound arose. When a few minutes had elapsed Rosalie, seeing her little charge absorbed in her amusement, seemingly happy and at ease, drew gradually farther away from her, as though lured by the grating of this rake. Zephyrin was now working away in the full glare of the sun, on the other side of the lawn. “You are sweating like an ox,” she whispered to him. “Take off your great-coat. Be quick; mademoiselle won’t be offended.” He relieved himself of the garment, and once more suspended it from a branch. His red trousers, supported by a belt round the waist, reached almost to his chest, while his shirt of stout, unbleached linen, held at the neck by a narrow horsehair band, was so stiff that it stuck out and made him look even rounder than he was. He tucked up his sleeves with a certain amount of affectation, as though to show Rosalie a couple of flaming hearts, which, with the inscription “For Ever,” had been tattooed on them at the barracks. “Did you go to mass this morning?” asked Rosalie, who usually tackled him with this question every Sunday. “To mass! to mass!” he repeated, with a chuckle. His red ears seemed to stand out from his head, shorn to the very skin, and the whole of his diminutive barrel-like body expressed a spirit of banter. At last the confession came. “Of course I went to mass.”