"Ohé, Monsieur, you mean"—the sudden light of relief flooding through her face was like a sunrise breaking through the piled-up black clouds of a stormy night—"you mean that you would live here in this house of mine as if you were my frère de lait—my foster-brother—like children playing house?"
"Precisely, Mademoiselle. 'Like children playing house'."
"La, la!" It was incredible how quickly her smile chased the look of desolation from her face. "But that will be the fun!
"Hurry, hasten, fly, Monsieur! Make haste to bring your things to this playhouse of ours.
"Marjotte," she called up the stairway, "make ready the guest room all quickly! Monsieur our rescuer will come to live with us!"
She swept him a deep curtsy as he paused upon the threshold. "Return all soon, Monsieur—ohé, shame on me for a thoughtless jade—I do not even know your name!"
"Westhorne," he answered. "Mordecai Westhorne."
"Mardochee," she pronounced, rendering the English into French, then with more difficulty, "Voestone?"
The rain had stopped and the little garden was brown and still under its canopy of unshed October leaves as Mordecai set out for his lodgings. As he stepped into the Street of the Windows his heart rose. Aunt Deborah surely would have understood and approved what he was doing. What was the little French girl's name—Susanne? Susanne—Susette. He liked the name Susette, liked it better each time he repeated it, and he repeated it more times than one. Susette—Susette, its cadence kept time with the scuffing of the rain-soaked leaves beneath his heels as he walked.
2. "Like Children Playing House"
They dined in the small salle à manger beside the latticed window. Two candles lighted them; old Marjotte served them, silent-footed, austere, handling dish and salver with a dignity that made the simple meal a rite: consommé—trust a woman peasant-bred to get the last fine bit of nourishment from a four-inch length of beef shinbone!—smelts fried a crisp gold-brown in olive oil, steamed escargots in sauce Bercy—Mordecai was doubtful of the snails, but became enthusiastic with a convert's ardor after the first taste—a chicory salad, finally cheese and toasted biscuit with black, bitter coffee. The wine, a white vin ordinaire, was tart almost to acidness, but Susette would not be depressed. "This year's vintage is a bitter one for France," she told him as they clinked glasses, "but there will be other years and other vintages. Danton is gone, Marat is killed—the good God rest the martyred Charlotte Corday's soul—Robespierre cannot last for ever. The sun must shine again, surely!"
Mordecai had lived in the small villa for a month, and life with Susette—"like children playing house"—had been most pleasant. She was a gay, mercurial little creature, oddly mature sometimes, more often childishly artless. For a few days it had been "bon jour, Monsieur," when he left for the office, and "enchantée de vous revoir" when he came back at night. But that was only for a few days. Now it was a gay "à bientot" when he left, and an even gayer "bienvenu!" at his return. Before they had been housemates for a week she turned her face up to be
