had never been attached to Andree.  She accused La Catiche, the nurse, of having made the child her own.  That gentle, docile, emotional little sheep was not a Seguin, she often remarked.  Then, while feigning to defend the girl, Celeste embittered her mother against her, and inspired her with a desire to see the marriage promptly concluded, in order that she might free herself from her last cares and live as she wished.  Thus, after a long chat with Mathieu, who promised his consent, it remained only for Du Hordel to assure himself of Seguin’s approval before an application in due form was made.  It was difficult, however, to find Seguin in a suitable frame of mind.  So weeks were lost, and it became necessary to pacify Ambroise, who was very much in love, and was doubtless warned by his all-invading genius that this loving and simple girl would bring him a kingdom in her apron.

One day when Mathieu was passing along the Avenue d’Antin, it occurred to him to call at the house to ascertain if Seguin had re-appeared there, for he had suddenly taken himself off without warning, and had gone, so it was believed, to Italy.  Then, as Mathieu found himself alone with Celeste, the opportunity seemed to him an excellent one to discover La Couteau’s whereabouts.  He asked for news of her, saying that a friend of his was in need of a good nurse.

“Well, monsieur, you are in luck’s way,” the maid replied; “La Couteau is to bring a child home to our neighbor, Madame Menoux, this very day.  It is nearly four o’clock now, and that is the time when she promised to come.  You know Madame Menoux’s place, do you not?  It is the third shop in the first street on the left.”  Then she apologized for being unable to conduct him thither:  “I am alone,” she said; “we still have no news of the master.  On Wednesdays Madame presides at the meeting of her society, and Mademoiselle Andree has just gone out walking with her uncle.”

Mathieu hastily repaired to Madame Menoux’s shop.  From a distance he saw her standing on the threshold; age had made her thinner than ever; at forty she was as slim as a young girl, with a long and pointed face.  Silent labor consumed her; for twenty years she had been desperately selling bits of cotton and packages of needles without ever making a fortune, but pleased, nevertheless, at being able to add her modest gains to her husband’s monthly salary in order to provide him with sundry little comforts.  His rheumatism would no doubt soon compel him to relinquish his post as a museum attendant, and how would they be able to manage with his pension of a few hundred francs per annum if she did not keep up her business?  Moreover, they had met with no luck.  Their first child had died, and some years had elapsed before the birth of a second boy, whom they had greeted with delight, no doubt, though he would prove a heavy burden to them, especially as they had now decided to take him back from the country.  Thus Mathieu found the worthy woman in a state of great emotion, waiting for the child on the threshold of her shop, and watching the corner of the avenue.