"An omelette is very much like a life, I think," she said after a moment. "No two are alike, though all are made with eggs. One puts in too many herbs, and the dish is bitter; another too few, and it is tasteless. Or we are impatient, and snatch at life in the raw; or idle, and burn our mixture. It is only one here and there who gets both matter and circumstance right." Jeanne was hovering like an angry bird, and as Mlle Desaix’ voice became more dreamy, and her eyes looked farther and farther away into space, she twitched out a small, vicious claw of a hand, and stealthily drew away the bowl that held the eggs. "One must just make the most of what one has," Ange was saying. Was she thinking of that sudden blush and pallor of a few hours back, or of her sister’s words the night before? "If one’s lot is tasteless, one must flavour it with cheerfulness; and if it is bitter, drink clear water after it, and forget." Aline shivered a little, and then, in spite of herself, she smiled. Jeanne had her pan on the fire, and a sudden raw smell of burning rose up, almost palpably. The mistress of the house came back from her dreams with a start, looked wildly round, and missed her eggs, her herbs, her every ingredient. "Jeanne! but truly, Jeanne!" she cried hotly; and as she spoke the little figure at the fire whisked round and precipitated a burnt, sodden substance on to the waiting dish. "Ma’mselle is served," she said snappishly, but there was a glint of triumph in her eye. "No, Jeanne, it is too much," said Ange, flushing; whereat Jeanne merely picked up the dish and observed: "If Ma’mselle will proceed into the other room, I will serve the dejeuner. Ma’mselle has perhaps not remarked that it grows late." After which speech Mlle Desaix walked out of the room with a fine dignity, and the smell of the burnt omelette followed her. Then began a time of household peace and quiet healing, in which at first Aline rested happily. In this small backwater, life went on very uneventfully,—birth and death in the village being the only happenings of note,—the state of Jeanne’s temper the most pressing anxiety, since Mlle Marthe’s suffering condition was a thing of such long standing as to be accepted as a matter of course, even by her devoted sister. Of France beyond the hills—of Paris, only thirty miles away—they heard very little. The news of the Queen’s trial and death did penetrate, and fell into the quiet like a stone into a sleeping pond. All the village rippled with it—broke into waves of discussion, splashes of lamentation, froth of approval, and then settled again into its wonted placidity.