His excitement brought a faint smile to her face.  “But I intend that we shall still continue friends,” said she.  “You will come here as usual, and simply give me your promise to remain content till I speak to you about the matter.  Is that understood?”

He had withdrawn his hand, and was now feverishly hunting for his hat, signifying his acquiescence by a continuous bobbing of the head.  Then, at the moment of leaving, he found his voice once more.

“Listen to me,” said he.  “You now know that I am there—­don’t you?  Well, whatever happens I shall always be there.  That’s all the Abbe should have told you.  In ten years, if you like; you will only have to make a sign.  I shall obey you!”

And it was he who a last time took Helene’s hand and gripped it as though he would crush it.  On the stairs the two brothers turned round with the usual good-bye: 

“Till next Tuesday!”

“Yes, Tuesday,” answered Helene.

On returning to her room a fresh downfall of rain beating against the shutters filled her with grave concern.  Good heavens! what an obstinate downpour, and how wet her poor friends would get!  She opened the window and looked down into the street.  Sudden gusts of wind were making the gaslights flicker, and amid the shiny puddles and shimmering rain she could see the round figure of Monsieur Rambaud, as he went off with dancing gait, exultant in the darkness, seemingly caring nothing for the drenching torrent.

Jeanne, however, was very grave, for she had overheard some of her playfellow’s last words.  She had just taken off her little boots, and was sitting on the edge of the bed in her nightgown, in deep cogitation.  On entering the room to kiss her, her mother discovered her thus.

“Good-night, Jeanne; kiss me.”

Then, as the child did not seem to hear her, Helene sank down in front of her, and clasped her round the waist, asking her in a whisper:  “So you would be glad if he came to live with us?”

The question seemed to bring no surprise to Jeanne.  She was doubtless pondering over this very matter.  She slowly nodded her head.

“But you know,” said her mother, “he would be always beside us—­night and day, at table—­everywhere!”

A great trouble dawned in the clear depths of the child’s eyes.  She nestled her cheek against her mother’s shoulder, kissed her neck, and finally, with a quiver, whispered in her ear:  “Mamma, would he kiss you?”

A crimson flush rose to Helene’s brow.  In her first surprise she was at a loss to answer, but at last she murmured:  “He would be the same as your father, my darling!”

Then Jeanne’s little arms tightened their hold, and she burst into loud and grievous sobbing.  “Oh! no, no!” she cried chokingly.  “I don’t want it then!  Oh! mamma, do please tell him I don’t.  Go and tell him I won’t have it!”

She gasped, and threw herself on her mother’s bosom, covering her with tears and kisses.  Helene did her utmost to appease her, assuring her she would make it all right; but Jeanne was bent on having a definite answer at once.