But La Couteau changed the conversation by asking the maid if she could not give her a drop of something to drink, for night travelling did upset her stomach so.  Thereupon Celeste, with a laugh, took a bottle half-full of malaga and a box of biscuits from the bottom of a cupboard.  This was her little secret store, stolen from the still-room.  Then, as the other expressed a fear that her mistress might surprise them, she made a gesture of insolent contempt.  Her mistress!  Why, she had her nose in her basins and perfumery pots, and wasn’t at all likely to call till she had fixed herself up so as to look pretty.

“There are only the children to fear,” added Celeste; “that Gaston and that Lucie, a couple of brats who are always after one because their parents never trouble about them, but let them come and play here or in the kitchen from morning till night.  And I don’t dare lock this door, for fear they should come rapping and kicking at it.”

When, by way of precaution, she had glanced down the passage and they had both seated themselves at table, they warmed and spoke out their minds, soon reaching a stage of easy impudence and saying everything as if quite unconscious how abominable it was.  While sipping her wine Celeste asked for news of the village, and La Couteau spoke the brutal truth, between two biscuits.  It was at the Vimeux’ house that the servant’s last child, born in La Rouche’s den, had died a fortnight after arriving at Rougemont, and the Vimeux, who were more or less her cousins, had sent her their friendly remembrances and the news that they were about to marry off their daughter.  Then, at La Gavette’s, the old grandfather, who looked after the nurslings while the family was at work in the fields, had fallen into the fire with a baby in his arms.  Fortunately they had been pulled out of it, and only the little one had been roasted.  La Cauchois, though at heart she wasn’t downcast, now had some fears that she might be worried, because four little ones had gone off from her house all in a body, a window being forgetfully left open at night-time.  They were all four little Parisians, it seemed—­two foundlings and two that had come from Madame Bourdieu’s.  Since the beginning of the year as many had died at Rougemont as had arrived there, and the mayor had declared that far too many were dying, and that the village would end by getting a bad reputation.  One thing was certain, La Couillard would be the very first to receive a visit from the gendarmes if she didn’t so arrange matters as to keep at least one nursling alive every now and then.

“Ah? that Couillard!” added the nurse-agent.  “Just fancy, my dear, I took her a child, a perfect little angel—­the boy of a very pretty young person who was stopping at Madame Bourdieu’s.  She paid four hundred francs to have him brought up until his first communion, and he lived just five days!  Really now, that wasn’t long enough!  La Couillard need not have been so hasty.  It