“Papa is the surprise,” piped the boy, glancing triumphantly up in the abbé’s face. “He is coming here--right here--to Salvières in a day or two.” The priest’s expectant smile was wiped out as with a cloth, and it was in a tone of strangely disproportionate reproof that he replied, “What silly yarn is this, and who told you such a fib, to begin with?” Piotr, greatly offended, drew up his sturdy little body. “I don’t know,” he replied, in his peculiarly precocious fashion, “why everybody tells me I’m a liar. Garrassime is just like you; he said that I wasn’t saying the truth.” “Garrassime is a man of great sense, then, that’s all,” the abbé said, with some heat, stealing a glance in the direction of Marguerite, who, bent forward, her lips a little unclosed, her blue eyes wide, was as motionless as the broad balustrade on which she sat. “If your father were coming here, assuredly Garrassime would know about it. So you see that you are dreaming, or have been misinformed, my dear child,” the abbé resumed. “Mis-in-formed!” sulked Piotr. “What does that mean? Is it that I’ve been lied to?” “Dear me,” said the exasperated Abbé de Kerdren, “can’t you remember, Piotr, that the words ‘lie’ and ‘liar’ are not parliamentary--no, I don’t express myself right--not polite or well-bred, d’you understand?” “Oh, I don’t mind that, but if one’s got to be polite now, even during play-hours, it’s beastly!” “Piotr!” threatened the abbé. But Piotr was not listening, and, following his own idea, burst out, “I know Papa is coming and so does Aunt Tatiana; so there!” “Is it Aunt Tatiana who has told you so?” “No, Uncle Pierre, she did not tell it to me; she was talking to Uncle Jean after he kissed her.” “Where?” “Where? Why, behind the ear, just on that little soft, white place one has above the neck.” “But, _sapristi_! I am not asking you where your uncle Jean kissed her. I ask where they both were when you heard what you pretend they said.” “That’s different,” condescended Piotr, with immense dignity. “They were in Aunt Tatiana’s dressing-room. I was under the dressing-table that’s got petticoats of gauze and an underskirt of pink satin. They say it’s a Duchess table, so I think that’s why Aunt Tatiana’s got one.” “But in the name of all the Saints of Paradise what were you doing under the dressing-table, and what did you hear, or rather mis-hear?” “I was hiding a mouse from the stable to frighten Marie when she found it.” And, seeing the abbé’s eyes seek Heaven in silent protest, Piotr continued: “You’re going to say it was not chivalrous like Bayard or the old Du Guesclin little darling Malou’s so fond of, but Marie’s such a coward and I wanted to hear her cry: ‘_Oh! M’ame la Duchesse--une souris! L’affreuse bête! Elle va me mordre!_’” “Now look here, Piotr,” the abbé said with enforced resignation, “let Marie and the mouse be for a minute, and admit that you did not hear a word of what you think you heard.”