The domino waiter made a vague gesture in the air with one fat hand, and then vanished as suddenly as he had appeared, closing the door behind him with a slam. If he had but seen fit to observe "Cuckoo!" the whole affair--the sort of châlet from which he emerged, the small square door, and his own performance--would have borne a remarkable resemblance to a Swiss clock striking one. Lieutenant Drouin detached an end of the rein from the snaffle-bar, knotted it about the back of one chair and flung himself into another. "Poof!" he said, and lit a cigarette. It was exactly one o'clock, and the Pré Catalan was deserted, save for a half dozen cats of various breeds and colors, chasing each other about under the chairs and tables, and two brilliant macaws sitting on wooden perches in an apparent state of coma, broken only by an occasional reflective "Wawk!" Once, a high cart flashed in an opening of the trees to the left, and then disappeared with a rattle of harness chains, in the direction of the porte Dauphine. For the rest, there was nothing to suggest that Paris might not be fifty kilometres distant. All the world was at breakfast. Eugène stretched his legs, squinted at the toes of his narrow riding boots, and swore tenderly at himself for having refused the invitation of the Marquise de Baucheron. Experience might have taught him that Rosa de Mirecourt would not be in the Bois that morning. It was a peculiarity of Rosa's to be in evidence on every occasion when her presence was not to be desired, and never to turn up when one was in the mood to chat or breakfast with her. Eugène had measured the Acacias bridle-path at a canter eight times since noon, scanning the driveway for a glimpse of the blue and scarlet victoria with the cream-colored mares, and all in vain. Rosa was nowhere to be seen. By this time, no doubt, some other lieutenant of chasseurs was thrashing out the latest gossip of the demi-monde over her breakfast table in the rue de Bassano, and still another was, in all probability, filling his place at Madame de Baucheron's, and eating the Friday breakfast--sole cardinale and oeufs brouillés aux crevettes--for which her chef was famous. Baste! what a world! The domino waiter reappeared presently in the doorway, came quickly across to Eugène's table with a curious, tottering shuffle born of his swaddling apron, and served a small white mug of cold milk as if it had been Château Latour-Blanche. "Beautiful weather, my lieutenant," he ventured cheerfully, for he had done his service, and knew the meaning of the single epaulette.