'You won't make me like it,' said the host, slapping the table. 'He might get to Lille this way, might he not?' asked Jean. 'Ay, he might. And he could hide about in the forest, waiting his opportunity to escape with facility.' 'I doubt if he could be caught if he hid away in the forest.' 'No, they could not catch him, unless they had dogs.' 'What, hunt him with dogs, like a deer!' 'Ay, with bloodhounds.' Berthier rose from his seat, and laid a piece of silver on the table. 'Where are you going?' asked the little hostess. 'I cannot eat any more,' answered he; 'the soup is thin, the cooking is execrable. Here, take this, I must be off.' He drew the hat farther over his eyes, and made towards the door. The old woman caught the resin flambeau from its holdfast, and running before him, threw the light into his face. 'Do you say my potage is thin,--is execrable? You did not see the _beaux yeux_ (the oily globules), you did not taste them--no! execrable!' Berthier brushed past her and went out, muttering a curse. 'Ah!' shrieked the indignant lady after him, 'you despise my potage, you do not admire the beautiful eyes of fat floating on its superb surface. I don't admire your eyes, neither, I tell you. I don't admire eyes set in red-hot sockets. Eyes, indeed! you're a nice choice personage to pour contempt on the magnificent eyes in my potage.' Then, turning to the peasants, she appealed to them. 'I will ask you, gentlemen, to observe your soup. Are there eyes on it; in abundance, eh? or are they scarce, eh? Does the potage taste execrable? does it look execrable? does it smell execrable?' 'Who is that fellow?' asked Pierre. 'Who is he?' repeated the hostess; 'Mon Dieu, how do I know? Do you think I care? do you think I shall concern myself for one instant about a ragamuffin who is so ill bred as to despise my potage; who sees no eyes in my soup; who tastes none; who nevertheless--' she looked into Berthier's bowl; 'who nevertheless has eaten it all up, and not left a sippet of bread behind for the cat?' 'What did you say about his eyes, madame?' asked Pierre. 'What did I say?' repeated the old woman; 'I said that he was not the man to criticise my eyes.' 'But what of his own?' 'What of his own!' echoed the hostess; 'if they were half as superb as those in my potage, he might be thankful, and offer votive wax ones at Notre Dame de Bon-secours. Ah! I have known sore eyes healed there. There was little Babelou, Pernette's daughter. The lids were closed about them like those of a young puppy, and so inflamed. It pierced the heart to see them, and they vowed to Notre Dame and took the child there, and she came back healed.' 'But what about the stranger's eyes? Were they sore?' 'Were they sore?' retorted the old woman. 'Do you call that sore when the eyeball is set in a ring of red? Is one with eyes such as that a fit person to talk of thin soup, of deficient eyes in the potage, of----'