I have already described the room in which we found ourselves, and I have given a glimpse of the charming blonde woman with the gentle eyes who now immediately began to prepare our breakfast.
"How's Daddy Mathieu ?" asked Rouletabille.
"Not much better--not much better; he is still confined to his bed." "His rheumatism still sticks to him, then ?" "Yes.

Last night I was again obliged to give him morphine--the only drug that gives him any relief." She spoke in a soft voice.

Everything about her expressed gentleness.
She was, indeed, a beautiful woman; somewhat with an air of indolence, with great eyes seemingly black and blue--amorous eyes.

Was she happy with her crabbed, rheumatic husband?
The scene at which we had once been present did not lead us to believe that she was; yet there was something in her bearing that was not suggestive of despair.

She disappeared into the kitchen to prepare our repast, leaving on the table a bottle of excellent cider.