“What is the matter, citoyenne?” asked the master of the establishment, re-entering, and drawing the attention of his customer to a little cardboard box covered with blue paper, which he held out to her.

“It is nothing, nothing, my friends,” she answered in a gentle voice, as she raised her eyes to give the man a thankful look.  Seeing a phrygian cap upon his head, a cry escaped her:—­“Ah! it is you who have betrayed me!”

The young woman and her husband replied by a deprecating gesture of horror which caused the unknown lady to blush, either for her harsh suspicion or from the relief of feeling it unjust.

“Excuse me,” she said, with childlike sweetness.  Then taking a gold louis from her pocket, she offered it to the pastry-cook.  “Here is the sum we agreed upon,” she added.

There is a poverty which poor people quickly divine.  The shopkeeper and his wife looked at each other with a glance at the old lady that conveyed a mutual thought.  The louis was doubtless her last.  The hands of the poor woman trembled as she offered it, and her eyes rested upon it sadly, yet not with avarice.  She seemed to feel the full extent of her sacrifice.  Hunger and want were traced upon her features in lines as legible as those of timidity and ascetic habits.  Her clothing showed vestiges of luxury.  It was of silk, well-worn; the mantle was clean, though faded; the laces carefully darned; in short, here were the rags of opulence.  The two shopkeepers, divided between pity and self-interest, began to soothe their conscience with words:—­

“Citoyenne, you seem very feeble—­”

“Would Madame like to take something?” asked the wife, cutting short her husband’s speech.

“We have some very good broth,” he added.

“It is so cold, perhaps Madame is chilled by her walk; but you can rest here and warm yourself.”

“The devil is not so black as he is painted,” cried the husband.

Won by the kind tone of these words, the old lady admitted that she had been followed by a man and was afraid of going home alone.

“Is that all?” said the man with the phrygian cap.  “Wait for me, citoyenne.”

He gave the louis to his wife.  Then moved by a species of gratitude which slips into the shopkeeping soul when its owner receives an exorbitant price for an article of little value, he went to put on his uniform as a National guard, took his hat, slung on his sabre, and reappeared under arms.  But the wife meantime had reflected.  Reflection, as often happens in many hearts, had closed the open hand of her benevolence.  Uneasy, and alarmed lest her husband should be mixed up in some dangerous affair, she pulled him by the flap of his coat, intending to stop him; but the worthy man, obeying the impulse of charity, promptly offered to escort the poor lady to her home.

“It seems that the man who has given her this fright is prowling outside,” said his wife nervously.