“Good morning, Baudet,” the diminutive round-faced landlady greeted her lodger, placing a pitcher of milk and bread basket on his table.
“Morning, Madame Dizier, and thank you.” His surrogate mother went over to the fire, raked the embers with a poker and put two logs on top, that shortly caught alight. Her rosy cheeks glowed even pinker in the light from the leaping flames and she stood, without speaking, arms folded and eyes fixed on him. Aware that she was still present, he turned around and gave her a questioning look, the signal for the woman to speak: “You did well last night, didn’t you?”
He was not expecting such a question. “I beg your pardon, Madame?”
It was now Baudet’s turn to register admiration that she attended church but her mention of Philippe then reminded him of this
