“As I think I have already told you, my friend, I have need of you.  You must obtain employment at the works for a young man in whom I am interested.  And if you desire to please me, you will even take him into your own office.”

Morange, who was seated in front of her on the other side of the chimney-piece, gave her a look of surprise.

“But I am not the master,” he replied; “apply to the master, he will certainly do whatever you ask.”

“No, I do not wish to be indebted to Denis in any way.  Besides, that would not suit my plans.  You yourself must recommend the young man, and take him as an assistant, coaching him and giving him a post under you.  Come, you surely have the power to choose a clerk.  Besides, I insist on it.”

She spoke like a sovereign, and he bowed his back, for he had obeyed people all his life; first his wife, then his daughter, and now that dethroned old queen who terrified him in spite of the dim feeling of rebellion which had been growing within him for some time past.

“No doubt, I might take the young man on,” he said, “but who is he?”

Constance did not immediately reply.  She had turned towards the fire, apparently for the purpose of raising a log of wood with the tongs, but in reality to give herself time for further reflection.  What good would it do to tell him everything at once?  She would some day be forced to tell it him, if she wished to have him entirely on her side; but there was no hurry, and she fancied that it would be skilful policy if at present she merely prepared the ground.

“He is a young man whose position has touched me, on account of certain recollections,” she replied.  “Perhaps you remember a girl who worked here—­oh! a very long time ago, some thirty years at the least—­a certain Norine Moineaud, one of old Moineaud’s daughters.”

Morange had hastily raised his head, and as sudden light flashed on his memory he looked at Constance with dilated eyes.  Before he could even weigh his words he let everything escape him in a cry of surprise:  “Alexandre-Honore, Norine’s son, the child of Rougemont!”

Quite thunderstruck by those words, Constance dropped the tongs she was holding, and gazed into the old man’s eyes, diving to the very depths of his soul.

“Ah! you know, then!” she said.  “What is it you know?  You must tell me; hide nothing.  Speak!  I insist on it!”

What he knew?  Why, he knew everything.  He spoke slowly and at length, as from the depths of a dream.  He had witnessed everything, learnt everything—­Norine’s trouble, the money given by Beauchene to provide for her at Madame Bourdieu’s, the child carried to the Foundling Hospital and then put out to nurse at Rougemont, whence he had fled after stealing three hundred francs.  And the old accountant was even aware that the young scamp, after stranding on the pavement of Paris, had led the vilest of lives there.