“Listen a moment, my girl.  Your aunt has asked me to allow this young man to come and see you on Sundays.  He will come in the afternoon, and you will try not to let your work fall behind too much.”

Rosalie paused, merely turning her head.  Though she was well pleased, she preserved her doleful air.

“Oh, madame, he will be such a bother,” she declared.  But at the same time she glanced over her shoulder at Zephyrin, and again made an affectionate grimace at him.  The little soldier remained for a minute stock-still, his mouth agape from ear to ear with its silent laugh.  Then he retired backwards, with his cap against his heart as he thanked Helene profusely.  The door had been shut upon him, when on the landing he still continued bowing.

“Is that Rosalie’s brother, mamma?” asked Jeanne.

Helene was quite embarrassed by the question.  She regretted the permission which she had just given in a sudden impulse of kindliness which now surprised her.  She remained thinking for some seconds, and then replied, “No, he is her cousin.”

“Ah!” said the child gravely.

Rosalie’s kitchen looked out on the sunny expanse of Doctor Deberle’s garden.  In the summer the branches of the elms swayed in through the broad window.  It was the cheeriest room of the suite, always flooded with light, which was sometimes so blinding that Rosalie had put up a curtain of blue cotton stuff, which she drew of an afternoon.  The only complaint she made about the kitchen was its smallness; and indeed it was a narrow strip of a place, with a cooking-range on the right-hand side, while on the left were the table and dresser.  The various utensils and furnishings, however, had all been so well arranged that she had contrived to keep a clear corner beside the window, where she worked in the evening.  She took a pride in keeping everything, stewpans, kettles, and dishes, wonderfully clean; and so, when the sun veered round to the window, the walls became resplendent, the copper vessels sparkled like gold, the tin pots showed bright discs like silver moons, while the white-and-blue tiles above the stove gleamed pale in the fiery glow.

On the evening of the ensuing Saturday Helene heard so great a commotion in the kitchen that she determined to go and see what was the matter.

“What is it?” asked she:  “are you fighting with the furniture?”

“I am scouring, madame,” replied Rosalie, who, sweating and dishevelled, was squatting on the tiled floor and scrubbing it with all the strength of her arms.

This over, she sponged it with clear water.  Never had the kitchen displayed such perfection of cleanliness.  A bride might have slept in it; all was white as for a wedding.  So energetically had she exerted her hands that it seemed as if table and dresser had been freshly planed.  And the good order of everything was a sight to see; stewpans and pots taking rank by their size, each on its own hook, even the frying-pan and gridiron shining brightly without one grimy stain.  Helene looked on for a moment in silence, and then with a smile disappeared.