Relieved of the governor’s constant watchfulness Baeader became himself.  He bustled about the restaurant, called for “Cancale speciale,” a variety of oysters apparently entirely unknown to the landlord, and interviewed the chef himself.  In a few moments a table was spread in a corner of the porch overlooking a garden gay with hollyhocks, and a dinner was ordered of broiled chicken, French rolls, some radishes, half a dozen apricots, and a fragment of cheese.  When it was over,—­Baeader had been served in an adjoining apartment,—­there remained not the amount mentioned in a former out-of-door feast, but sufficient to pack at least one basket,—­in this case a paper box,—­the drumsticks being stowed below, dunnaged by two rolls, and battened down with fragments of cheese and three apricots.

“What’s this for, Baeader?  Have you not had enough to eat?”

Baeader’s face wore its blandest smile.  “On ze contraire, I have made for myself a most excellent repast; but if monsieur will consider—­ze dinner is a prix fixe, and monsieur can eat it all, or it shall remain for ze proprietaire.  Zis, if monsieur will for one moment attend, will be stupid extraordinaire.  I have made ze investigation, and discover zat ze post depart from Cancale in one hour.  How simple zen to affeex ze stamps,—­only five sous,—­and in ze morning, even before Mme. Baeader is out of ze bed, it is in Paris—­a souvenir from Cancale.  How charmante ze surprise!”

I discovered afterward that since he had joined us Baeader’s own domestic larder had been almost daily enriched with crumbs like these from Dives’s table.

The fete, despite Baeader’s assurances, lacked one necessary feature.  There was no music.  The band was away with the boats, the triangle probably cooking, the French horn and clarinet hauling seines.

But Baeader, not to be outdone by any contretemps, started off to find an old blind fellow who played an accordeon, collecting five francs of me in advance for his pay, under the plea that it was quite horrible that the young people could not dance.  “While one is young, monsieur, music is ze life of ze heart.”

He brought the old man back, and with a certain care and tenderness set him down on a stone bench, the sightless eyes of the poor peasant turning up to the stars as he swayed the primitive instrument back and forth.  The young girls clung to Baeader’s arm, and blessed him for his goodness.  I forgave him his duplicity, his delight in their happiness was so genuine.  Perhaps it was even better than a fete.

When, later in the evening, we arrived at Mme. Flamand’s, we found her in the doorway, her brown face smiling, her white cap and apron in full relief under the glare of an old-fashioned ship’s light, which hung from a rafter of the porch.  Baeader inscribed my name in a much-thumbed, ink—­stained register, which looked like a neglected ship’s log, and then added his own.  This, by the by, Baeader never neglected.  Neither did he neglect a certain little ceremony always connected with it.