CHAPTER III.
THE MUTILATED HAND "Monsieur Paul ?" cried the handsome widow of Monsieur Boisjoli, stepping from behind the pastry counter.
"Yes, Mignon, it is I," said the Chevalier; "that is, what remains of me." "What happiness to see you again!" she exclaimed.

She turned to a waiter.

"Charlot, bring Monsieur le Chevalier the pheasant pie, the ragout of hare, and a bottle of chambertin from the bin of '36." "Sorceress!" laughed the Chevalier; "you have sounded the very soul of me.

Thanks, Mignon, thanks! Next to love, what is more to a man than a full stomach?
Ah, you should have seen me when I came in! And devil take this nose of mine; not even steam and water have thawed the frost from it." He chucked her under the chin and smiled comically, all of which made manifest that the relations existing between the hostess of the Candlestick and her principal tenant were of the most cordial and Platonic character.
"And you have just returned from Rome?
Ah, what a terrible ride!" "Abominable, Mignon." "And I see you hungry!" She sighed, and her black eyes grew moist and tender.

Madame Boisjoli was only thirty-two.