In this way Mother Fetu rambled on with the pious glibness of a devotee who is perpetually telling her beads.  But the twitching of the myriad wrinkles of her face showed that her mind was still working, and soon she beamed with intense satisfaction.

“Ah!” she all at once resumed in inconsequent fashion, “how I should like to have a pair of good shoes!  My gentleman has been so very kind, I can’t ask him for anything more.  You see I’m dressed; still I must get a pair of good shoes.  Look at those I have; they are all holes; and when the weather’s muddy, as it is to-day, one’s apt to get very ill.  Yes, I was down with colic yesterday; I was writhing all the afternoon, but if I had a pair of good shoes—­”

“I’ll bring you a pair, Mother Fetu,” said Helene, waving her towards the door.

Then, as the old woman retired backwards, with profuse curtseying and thanks, she asked her:  “At what hour are you alone?”

“My gentleman is never there after six o’clock,” she answered.  “But don’t give yourself the trouble; I’ll come myself, and get them from your doorkeeper.  But you can do as you please.  You are an angel from heaven.  God on high will requite you for all your kindness!”

When she had reached the landing she could still be heard giving vent to her feelings.  Helene sat a long time plunged in the stupor which the information, supplied by this woman with such fortuitous seasonableness, had brought upon her.  She now knew the place of assignation.  It was a room, with pink decorations, in that old tumbledown house!  She once more pictured to herself the staircase oozing with damp, the yellow doors on each landing, grimy with the touch of greasy hands, and all the wretchedness which had stirred her heart to pity when she had gone during the previous winter to visit Mother Fetu; and she also strove to conjure up a vision of that pink chamber in the midst of such repulsive, poverty-stricken surroundings.  However, whilst she was still absorbed in her reverie, two tiny warm hands were placed over her eyes, which lack of sleep had reddened, and a laughing voice inquired:  “Who is it? who is it?”

It was Jeanne, who had slipped into her clothes without assistance.  Mother Fetu’s voice had awakened her; and perceiving that the closet door had been shut, she had made her toilet with the utmost speed in order to give her mother a surprise.

“Who is it? who is it?” she again inquired, convulsed more and more with laughter.

She turned to Rosalie, who entered at the moment with the breakfast.

“You know; don’t you speak.  Nobody is asking you any question.”

“Be quiet, you little madcap!” exclaimed Helene.  “I suppose it’s you!”

The child slipped on to her mother’s lap, and there, leaning back and swinging to and fro, delighted with the amusement she had devised, she resumed: 

“Well, it might have been another little girl!  Eh?  Perhaps some little girl who had brought you a letter of invitation to dine with her mamma.  And she might have covered your eyes, too!”