She melted into tears as she spoke, and grasping Helene’s hands kissed them.  In a stewpan on the stove some wine was being heated, and on the table, near the lamp, stood a half-empty bottle of Bordeaux with its tapering neck.  The only other things placed there were four dishes, a glass, two saucepans, and an earthenware pot.  It could be seen that Mother Fetu camped in this bachelor’s kitchen, and that the fires were lit for herself only.  Seeing Helene’s glance turn towards the stewpan, she coughed, and once more put on her dolorous expression.

“It’s gripping me again,” she groaned.  “Oh! it’s useless for the doctor to talk; I must have some creature in my inside.  And then, a drop of wine relieves me so.  I’m greatly afflicted, my good lady.  I wouldn’t have a soul suffer from my trouble; it’s too dreadful.  Well, I’m nursing myself a bit now; and when a person has passed through so much, isn’t it fair she should do so?  I have been so lucky in falling in with a nice gentleman.  May Heaven bless him!”

With this outburst she dropped two large lumps of sugar into her wine.  She was now getting more corpulent than ever, and her little eyes had almost vanished from her fat face.  She moved slowly with a beatifical expression of felicity.  Her life’s ambition was now evidently satisfied.  For this she had been born.  When she put her sugar away again Helene caught a glimpse of some tid-bits secreted at the bottom of a cupboard—­a jar of preserves, a bag of biscuits, and even some cigars, all doubtless pilfered from the gentleman lodger.

“Well, good-bye, Mother Fetu, I’m going away,” she exclaimed.

The old lady, however, pushed the saucepan to one side of the stove and murmured:  “Wait a minute; this is far too hot, I’ll drink it by-and-by.  No, no; don’t go out that way.  I must beg pardon for having received you in the kitchen.  Let us go round the rooms.”

She caught up the lamp, and turned into a narrow passage.  Helene, with beating heart, followed close behind.  The passage, dilapidated and smoky, was reeking with damp.  Then a door was thrown open, and she found herself treading a thick carpet.  Mother Fetu had already advanced into a room which was plunged in darkness and silence.

“Well?” she asked, as she lifted up the lamp; “it’s very nice, isn’t it?”

There were two rooms, each of them square, communicating with one another by folding-doors, which had been removed, and replaced by curtains.  Both were hung with pink cretonne of a Louis Quinze pattern, picturing chubby-checked cupids disporting themselves amongst garlands of flowers.  In the first apartment there was a round table, two lounges, and some easy-chairs; and in the second, which was somewhat smaller, most of the space was occupied by the bed.  Mother Fetu drew attention to a crystal lamp with gilt chains, which hung from the ceiling.  To her this lamp was the veritable acme of luxury.