Gardening in midwinter!—­what new freak has taken possession of that eccentric man?  The morning broke dank and drear, for the December air had chilled the moisture into a fog.  The wide verandas that opened on the court-yard in rear were dripping with the rain, and the broad flag-stones covered with a greasy slime.  The diminutive grass-plot was brown and soggy, but the withered blades rapidly disappeared under the sturdy plunges of Marcel’s spade.  I had gone out on the gallery to fill a ewer with water—­in his excitement of the previous evening, Marcel had forgotten my morning bath—­and saw him distinctly through the jalousies.  He must have commenced at daylight; for, though it was then early, the ground was almost entirely dug up.  Near him, on the pavement, was the basket over which he had displayed so much agitation.  He prepared six holes, each of which was carefully lined with straw, and then deliberately commenced planting the egg-plants whole.

An hour or two later, he came up with the coffee.  I thought he turned a shade or two paler at seeing me up and dressed; but no vestige of petulance remained.  Having really taken no offense at the outburst, I rallied him concerning it.

“I was wrong,” said he, gravely; “but nature has left me destitute of tact.  An artist was once ordered to paint a one-eyed princess:  the artful man made the picture a profile.  Devoid of his discernment, I saw only my ruined treasures.”

“And, after acting like a wild man, you sneer at my curiosity.”

“One so secure in his position as M. Granger can lose nothing by forbearance.”

“In other words, I am to endure patiently the taunts of an apron, because its wearer is worthy of a surtout?”

“The prompt nature of hunger is well known.  Fifty years ago, I might have shrieked in the Place de la Concorde.  France has degenerated; I polish your shoes.”

The assumption of inferiority was so defiant that I said, bluntly, “This can never excuse the neglect of faculties bestowed by Heaven.”

He shrugged his shoulders, and answered, “There was a time when power succumbed to intellect.  ‘Stand out of my sunlight,’ said Diogenes to Alexander; and Alexander did so.  This is Paris, M. Granger, and we are living on the Rue Lepelletier.”

“And, frightened at its splendor, M. Marcel has prudently determined to put his brains under regimen.”

“M.  Marcel has prudently determined to avoid in future a tete-a-tete with his superiors.”

He started abruptly to the door, and I called him back; determined distance even in a servant is far from flattering, and I asked him frankly if his visits to my apartments were as distasteful as his manner would lead me to infer.

He answered, politely, “Were fickle Fortune waiting to conduct me to the summit of my ambition, I would detain her a few hours to enjoy society so charming; but M. Granger forgets he is addressing a domestic.”