and shrinking from sight as though she were on the way to some assignation.  However, as she hastily turned into the Passage des Eaux, she halted beneath the archway, her heart giving way to genuine terror.  The passage opened beneath her like some black gulf.  The bottom of it was invisible; the only thing she could see in this black tunnel was the quivering gleam of the one lamp which lighted it.  Eventually she made up her mind, and grasped the iron railing to prevent herself from slipping.  Feeling her way with the tip of her boots she landed successively on the broad steps.  The walls, right and left, grew closer, seemingly prolonged by the darkness, while the bare branches of the trees above cast vague shadows, like those of gigantic arms with closed or outstretched hands.  She trembled as she thought that one of the garden doors might open and a man spring out upon her.  There were no passers-by, however, and she stepped down as quickly as possible.  Suddenly from out of the darkness loomed a shadow which coughed, and she was frozen with fear; but it was only an old woman creeping with difficulty up the path.  Then she felt less uneasy, and carefully raised her dress, which had been trailing in the mud.  So thick was the latter that her boots were constantly sticking to the steps.  At the bottom she turned aside instinctively.  From the branches the raindrops dripped fast into the passage, and the lamp glimmered like that of some miner, hanging to the side of a pit which infiltrations have rendered dangerous.

Helene climbed straight to the attic she had so often visited at the top of the large house abutting on the Passage.  But nothing stirred, although she rapped loudly.  In considerable perplexity she descended the stairs again.  Mother Fetu was doubtless in the rooms on the first floor, where, however, Helene dared not show herself.  She remained five minutes in the entry, which was lighted by a petroleum lamp.  Then again she ascended the stairs hesitatingly, gazing at each door, and was on the point of going away, when the old woman leaned over the balusters.

“What! it’s you on the stairs, my good lady!” she exclaimed.  “Come in, and don’t catch cold out there.  Oh! it is a vile place—­enough to kill one.”

“No, thank you,” said Helene; “I’ve brought you your pair of shoes, Mother Fetu.”

She looked at the door which Mother Fetu had left open behind her, and caught a glimpse of a stove within.

“I’m all alone, I assure you,” declared the old woman.  “Come in.  This is the kitchen here.  Oh! you’re not proud with us poor folks; we can talk to you!”

Despite the repugnance which shame at the purpose of her coming created within her, Helene followed her.

“God in Heaven! how can I thank you!  Oh, what lovely shoes!  Wait, and I’ll put them on.  There’s my whole foot in; it fits me like a glove.  Bless the day!  I can walk with these without being afraid of the rain.  Oh! my good lady, you are my preserver; you’ve given me ten more years of life.  No, no, it’s no flattery; it’s what I think, as true as there’s a lamp shining on us.  No, no, I don’t flatter!”