very long time, but comets do not always shine with the same brilliance. Everything in the world grows old, and it gradually looked as if the eagerness of the cutters were growing weaker; they seemed to hesitate when the cake was held out to them; this office once so much coveted became less sought after; it was held a shorter time and was considered with less pride by the holder. Madame Anserre was prodigal of smiles and amiability, but, alas! the cake was no longer willingly cut. Newcomers seemed to decline the honour, and old favourites reappeared one by one like dethroned kings temporarily replaced in power. Then the elected became very scarce indeed, and for a month, marvelous to relate, Monsieur Anserre cut the cake, then he looked as if he were getting tired of it, and one evening Madame Anserre, the beautiful Madame Anserre, was seen cutting it herself. But she seemed bored and the next day she insisted with such vehemence that the chosen guest dared not refuse.
However, the symbol was too well known; the guests stared at each other furtively with scared, anxious faces. To cut the brioche was nothing, but the privileges that accompanied this distinction now filled the chosen ones with terror, so that the minute the cake-dish appeared, the academicians made a rush for the Salon of Agriculture as it to shelter behind the husband, who was always smiling, and when Madame Anserre, in a state of anxiety, showed herself at the door, carrying the knife in one hand and the brioche in the other, they all gathered round her husband as if they were seeking his protection.
Some years passed and no one cut up the cake, but the old habit persisted and she who was still politely called “the beautiful Madame Anserre” looked out each evening for some devotee to take the knife, and each time the same stampede took place: there was a general flight, cleverly arranged and full of combined and skilful manoeuvres to avoid the offer that was rising to her lips.
But, one evening, a boy—ignorant of the ways of the world and quite unsophisticated—was introduced to the house. He knew nothing about the mystery of the brioche; therefore when it appeared and when the rest had all fled, and when Madame Anserre took the cake from the footman, he remained quietly by her side.
She may have thought that he knew all about it; she smiled and said in a voice full of feeling: “Will you be so kind as to cut this brioche, dear Monsieur?”
Flattered at the honour, he replied: “Certainly, Madame, with the greatest pleasure.”
In the distance—in the corners of the gallery, in the open doorway of the Salon of Agriculture—amazed faces were looking at him. Then, when the spectators saw the newcomer cutting the cake, they quickly came forward. An old poet jokingly slapped the neophyte on the shoulder and whispered: “Bravo, young man!”
The others gazed at him with curiosity and even Monsieur appeared surprised. As for the young man, he was astonished at the consideration he met with; above all, he failed to understand the marked attentions, the conspicuous favour, and the speechless gratitude of the mistress of the house.
Nevertheless, he eventually found out, though no one knew at what moment, in what place the revelation came to him, but when he appeared at the next reception he seemed preoccupied and half ashamed, and looked anxiously round the room. When the bell rang for tea and the footman appeared, Madame Anserre, with a smile, took the dish and looked round for her young friend, but he fled so precipitately that no trace of him could be found. Then she went off to look for him and discovered him at the end of the Salon of “labourers” holding her husband’s arm tightly and consulting him in an agonised manner as to the best method of destroying phylloxera.
“My dear Monsieur, will you be so kind as to cut up this brioche?” she said.
He blushed to the roots of his hair, stammered, and completely lost his head. Thereupon Monsieur Anserre took pity on him and, turning to his wife, said:
“My dear, it would be kind of you not to disturb us. We are discussing agriculture. Let Baptiste cut up the cake.”
Since that day no one has ever cut Madame Anserre’s brioche.
The Log
It was a small drawing room, with thick hangings, and with a faint aromatic smell of scent in the air. A large fire was burning in the grate, and one lamp, covered with a shade of old lace, on the corner of the mantelpiece threw a soft light on to the two persons who were talking.
She, the mistress of the house, was an old lady with white hair, one of those adorable old ladies whose unwrinkled skin is as smooth as the finest paper, and is scented, impregnated with perfume, the delicate essences used in the bath for so many years having penetrated through the epidermis. An old lady who, when one kisses her hand, smells of the delicate perfume which greets the nostrils, when a box of Florentine iris powder is opened.
He was a very old friend, who had never married, a constant friend, a companion in the journey of life, but nothing else.
They had not spoken for about a minute, and were both looking at the fire, dreaming of nothing in particular. It was one of those moments of sympathetic silence between people who have no need to be constantly talking in order to be happy together. Suddenly a large log, a stump covered with burning roots, fell out. It fell over the firedogs on to the drawing room floor, scattering great sparks all round. The old lady sprang up with a little scream, as if to run away, but he kicked the log back on to the hearth and trod out the burning sparks with his boots.
When the disaster was repaired, there was a strong smell of burning. Sitting
