M. Auguste was very fond of little Germaine, and often told her of his boyhood days in the gay little city of Tours, where the purest French is spoken, with its fine old cathedral and the lovely country thereabouts all covered with grape-vines; and how in the bright autumn days the vineyards are full of workers filling the baskets on their backs with the green and purple grapes; how late in the evening the big wagons, full of men, women, and children, come rolling home, piled up with grapes, the pickers all singing and joyous, with great bunches of wild flowers tied on the front of each wagon. "A very happy, gay people, my dear," would remark M. Auguste, "not like these cold, stolid Normans." But to us foreigners all the French people seem as gay as these good folk of Touraine, the land of vineyards and beautiful white châteaux. M. Auguste had also been a great traveller, for his father was well-to-do, and he thought that his boy should see something of his own country--though French people as a rule are not great travellers. They are the most home-loving people in the world, and their greatest ambition is to have a little house and a garden in which to spend their days. So M. Auguste had seen much. He had been to the bustling city of Lyons, where the finest silks and velvets in the world are made. He had journeyed along the beautiful coast of France where it borders on the blue Mediterranean, where palms and oranges and such lovely flowers grow, especially the sweet purple violets from which the perfumes are made. From here also come the candied rose-petals and violets, that the confectioners sell you as the latest thing in sweetmeats. He had visited the great port of Marseilles, the most important in France, where are to be seen ships from all over the world, and there he learned to make their famous dish, the _bouillabaisse_, which is a luscious stew of all kinds of fish--for M. Auguste prides himself on the special dishes that he cooks for his guests, and Germaine is often asked to try them. He had been also to the rich city of Bordeaux, where the fine wines come from. Oh, M. Auguste is a great traveller, thought Germaine, as they sat together in the kitchen of the Belle Étoile, while M. Auguste talked with Mimi, the white cat, sitting on his shoulder, while Fifine, the black one, was on his knee. They were great pets of M. Auguste, and as well known and liked as himself by the guests at the Belle Étoile. CHAPTER II. TO ROUEN ON A BARGE