"He's a good fellow, this Bertrand; I love him a lot, I do; yes, I'm very fond of him, although he's a bit of a traitor, like his master." "Oh! as for that, mademoiselle, when you talk about being honest, I flatter myself----" "All right, Bertrand; I only said that for fun. But I'm not going to breakfast on honesty. What are you going to give me?" "If mademoiselle would like coffee, I'll go down and have some sent up." "Coffee! oh! that makes a hole in my stomach, it's no good. Haven't you got anything to eat here?" "We have the remains of a pie, a bit of fowl, and some Lyon sausage." "Ah! I like those better than coffee; bring 'em all, my little Bertrand; just to pass the time till Auguste comes back." Bertrand moved a small tea-table to the couch, and lost no time in laying it for Mademoiselle Virginie's breakfast, who assisted him by going to the sideboard herself for whatever she needed, saying: "I am sorry to put you to so much trouble, Bertrand." "You are joking, mademoiselle." "Where's little Tony?" "He's with monsieur; he has to have somebody on account of the cabriolet." "That boy's a sly little rascal; he'll never tell me anything, whereas you, Bertrand, you do at least talk; to be sure, I know that you don't tell me everything. After all, you're right; there are some things I ought not to know, they'd make me too unhappy. Meanwhile, I'll have my breakfast." Mademoiselle Virginie took her place before the breakfast, and, while repeating from time to time that she was still sick, speedily caused the cold fowl to disappear, and made a vigorous assault on the pie and the sausage, washing them down with claret, in which she did not deem it necessary to put water. But, while she was eating, Virginie glanced at a clock in front of her and cried: "The rascal! Why doesn't he come home? You must admit, Bertrand, that people don't stay at a ball till nine o'clock in the morning. I know myself that bourgeois balls always end by five; my aunt used to give one sometimes. Poor aunt! I shall have to make up with her now!--I say, this pie isn't half bad.--You see, Bertrand, my aunt's a woman of your sort." "I understand--a tall woman, five feet six inches, like me, eh?" "No, no! what a donkey you are with your six inches! Still, it would be rather nice[C] if my aunt had six of 'em. When I say of your sort, I mean a fine woman, a respectable woman. Oh! she preaches to me, I tell you, she does! She used to say such touching things to me that I wept like a Magdalen while I was listening; but once outside--prrr!--I forgot all about it.--A body could eat a two pound loaf with this devilish sausage!--That wretched Auguste! Ah! he shall pay me for this. In the first place, I don't propose to go till he comes back, if I have to stay here till to-morrow. It don't make any difference to me, I'm my own mistress." [C] The joke consists in the fact that the same word--_pouce_--means "inch" and "thumb." At that moment the bell rang softly.