Valentine became interested.  This Madame Menoux was a haberdasher in the neighborhood and a great friend of Celeste’s.  She had married a former soldier, a tall handsome fellow, who now earned a hundred and fifty francs a month as an attendant at a museum.  She was very fond of him, and had bravely set up a little shop, the profits from which doubled their income, in such wise that they lived very happily and almost at their ease.  Celeste, who frequently absented herself from her duties to spend hours gossiping in Madame Menoux’s little shop, was forever being scolded for this practice; but in the present instance Valentine, full of anxiety and curiosity, did not chide her.  The maid was quite proud at being questioned, and informed her mistress that Madame Menoux’s baby was a fine little boy, and that the mother had been attended by a certain Madame Rouche, who lived at the lower end of the Rue du Rocher.

“It was I who recommended her,” continued the servant, “for a friend of mine whom she had attended had spoken to me very highly of her.  No doubt she has not such a good position as Madame Bourdieu, who has so handsome a place in the Rue de Miromesnil, but she is less expensive, and so very kind and obliging.”

Then Celeste suddenly ceased speaking, for she noticed that Mathieu’s eyes were fixed upon her, and this, for reasons best known to herself, made her feel uncomfortable.  He on his side certainly placed no confidence in this big dark girl with a head like that of a horse, who, it seemed to him, knew far too much.

Marianne joined in the conversation.  “But why,” asked she, “why does not this Madame Menoux, whom you speak about, keep her baby with her?”

Thereupon La Couteau turned a dark harsh glance upon this lady visitor, who, whatever course she might take herself, had certainly no right to prevent others from doing business.

“Oh! it’s impossible,” exclaimed Celeste, well pleased with the diversion.  “Madame Menoux’s shop is no bigger than my pocket-handkerchief, and at the back of it there is only one little room where she and her husband take their meals and sleep.  And that room, too, overlooks a tiny courtyard where one can neither see nor breathe.  The baby would not live a week in such a place.  And, besides, Madame Menoux would not have time to attend to the child.  She has never had a servant, and what with waiting on customers and having to cook meals in time for her husband’s return from the museum, she never has a moment to spare.  Oh! if she could, she would be very happy to keep the little fellow with her.”

“It is true,” said Marianne sadly; “there are some poor mothers whom I pity with all my heart.  This person you speak of is not in poverty, and yet is reduced to this cruel separation.  For my part, I should not be able to exist if a child of mine were taken away from me to some unknown spot and given to another woman.”