The little soldier gaped with a silent chuckle. His face beamed with smiles, and his eyes followed each picture, his head wagging whenever something especially lovely was being examined by madame. “That one there,” he suddenly remarked, “I found in the Rue du Temple. She’s a beautiful woman, with flowers in her basket.” Hélène sat down and inspected the beautiful woman who decorated the gilt and varnished lid of a box of lozenges, every stain on which had been carefully wiped off by Zephyrin. On the chair a dish-cloth was hanging, and she could not well lean back. She flung it aside, however, and once more lapsed into her dreaming. Then the two sweethearts remarked madame’s good nature, and their restraint vanished—in the end, indeed, her very presence was forgotten by them. One by one the pictures had dropped from her hands on to her knees, and, with a vague smile playing on her face, she examined the sweethearts and listened to their talk. “I say, my dear,” whispered the girl, “won’t you have some more mutton?” He answered neither yes nor no, but swung backwards and forwards on his chair as though he had been tickled, then contentedly stretched himself, while she placed a thick slice on his plate. His red epaulets moved up and down, and his bullet-shaped head, with its huge projecting ears, swayed to and fro over his yellow collar as though it were the head of some Chinese idol. His laughter ran all over him, and he was almost bursting inside his tunic, which he did not unbutton, however, out of respect for madame. “This is far better than old Rouvet’s radishes!” he exclaimed at last, with his mouth full. This was a reminiscence of their country home; and at thought of it they both burst into immoderate laughter. Rosalie even had to hold on to the table to prevent herself from falling. One day, before their first communion, it seemed, Zephyrin had filched three black radishes from old Rouvet. They were very tough radishes indeed—tough enough to break one’s teeth; but Rosalie all the same had crunched her share of the spoil at the back of the schoolhouse. Hence it was that every time they chanced to be taking a meal together Zephyrin never omitted to ejaculate: “Yes; this is better than old Rouvet’s radishes!” And then Rosalie’s laughter would become so violent that nine times out of ten her petticoat-string would give way with an audible crack. “Hello! has it parted?” asked the little soldier, with triumph in his tone. But Rosalie responded with a good slap. “It’s disgusting to make me break the string like this!” said she. “I put a fresh one on every week.”