_Ouf!_ We need not trouble ourselves about her. It was but last week that she had had a fever in that very bed--a fever scarcely worth mentioning; but she was now in Bordeaux for change of air: ‘_et maintenant, mes demoiselles, descendons!_’ We did not dare to inquire further as to Mademoiselle Marcault’s fever, but we felt that it gave the finishing touch of horror to those dusky draperies. It was too late now, however, to draw back, and, expressing a lying satisfaction in all that we had seen, we followed our hostess’s devious course to the kitchen. M. Marcault was there with another man, who, it was explained, was a friend who had come to dine. Both were dressed in blue linen blouses, and were of the sharp-nosed, long-moustached type common in Médoc and both rose and bowed solemnly as Madame Suzanne introduced us. ‘_Deux demoiselles Irlandaises_,’ she explained, with an up-and-down flourish of the lamp, in order that no details of the appearance of the maniacs might be lost, ‘who are anxious to become acquainted with an _intérieur paysan_.’ At this juncture we were far more anxious that _la nourriture paysanne_ should become acquainted with our interior, but we made reply in fitting terms, and beguiled the remaining interval before dinner with political conversation. We always found it advisable in France to announce our true nationality as soon as convenient. We found ourselves at once on a different and more friendly footing, and talk had a pleasant tendency to drift into confidential calumny of our mutual neighbour, perfidious Albion, and all things ran smoother and more gaily. Dinner was ready at last, and we all sat down very close to each other round the narrow table. Suzanne fetched the soup and the _ragoût_ off the stove, and helped us all out of the pot. Our glasses were filled with excellent _ordinaire_, and we began to think it was a charming party. The two men were most agreeable and instructive, talking with astonishing ease and well-bred self-possession on any subject that was started, and giving us much useful information on the subject of vines and vine-growing. We were most careful to copy our hosts in all things. We put salt in our soup with the blades of our knives; we absorbed the rich sauce of our delicious _ragoût_ with pieces of bread, being indeed pressed to do so by M. Marcault; we cleaned our knives on rinds of leathery crust; in fact, we conformed, as we thought, admirably. Everything was going on velvet, when, after the _ragoût_, the smell of fried oil became apparent, and from a covered-in pan Suzanne helped us each to a large piece of something that resembled sweet-bread, and cut rather like a tough custard pudding. It was fried bright brown, but the inside was yellowish white, and the whole thing was swimming in hot oil. We asked nervously what it was.