Madame Angelin quivered and closed her eyes as if to escape the spectacle of all the terrifying things that she evoked, the wretchedness, the shame, the crimes that she elbowed during her continual perambulations through that hell of poverty, vice, and hunger.  She often returned home pale and silent, having reached the uttermost depths of human abomination, and never daring to say all.  At times she trembled and raised her eyes to Heaven, wondering what vengeful cataclysm would swallow up that accursed city of Paris.

“Ah!” she murmured once more; “their sufferings are so great, may their sins be forgiven them.”

Moineaud listened to her in a state of stupor, as if he were unable to understand.  At last with difficulty he succeeded in taking his pipe from his mouth.  It was, indeed, quite an effort now for him to do such a thing, and yet for fifty years he had wrestled with iron—­iron in the vice or on the anvil.

“There is nothing like good conduct,” he stammered huskily.  “When a man works he’s rewarded.”

Then he wished to set his pipe between his lips once more, but was unable to do so.  His hand, deformed by the constant use of tools, trembled too violently.  So it became necessary for Norine to rise from her chair and help him.

“Poor father!” exclaimed Cecile, who had not ceased working, cutting out the cardboard for the little boxes she made:  “What would have become of him if we had not given him shelter?  It isn’t Irma, with her stylish hats and her silk dresses who would have cared to have him at her place.”

Meantime Norine’s little boy had taken his stand in front of Madame Angelin, for he knew very well that, on the days when the good lady called, there was some dessert at supper in the evening.  He smiled at her with the bright eyes which lit up his pretty fair face, crowned with tumbled sunshiny hair.  And when she noticed with what a merry glance he was waiting for her to open her little bag, she felt quite moved.

“Come and kiss me, my little friend,” said she.

She knew no sweeter reward for all that she did than the kisses of the children in the poor homes whither she brought a little joy.  When the youngster had boldly thrown his arms round her neck, her eyes filled with tears; and, addressing herself to his mother, she repeated:  “No, no, you must not complain; there are others who are more unhappy than you.  I know one who if this pretty little fellow could only be her own would willingly accept your poverty, and paste boxes together from morning till night and lead a recluse’s life in this one room, which he suffices to fill with sunshine.  Ah! good Heavens, if you were only willing, if we could only change.”