“That I hear; but what were you doing to make any one so cruel?”

“Perine only looking at pretty bright figures, mother; so pretty with the light on them. 7639.”

“What is she talking about?” said Madame Didier, puzzled, “7639?”

“Yes, yes,” said the girl eagerly, and then she broke off again into her lamentations, which lasted until Marie had bathed her hurt, and soothed her by degrees.  But when she proposed to take her to the cremerie, Perine began to wail again, and it was evident that something had so terrified her, that it would be cruelty to force her out into the streets.  Every now and then she let drop another word or two on the subject of her fright; her poor disconnected brain seemed unable to grasp anything as a whole; something would float across it and be lost.  Marie had grown apt at gathering together these cobweb strands, and disentangling them, but now even her ingenuity was at fault, and the number was the only point which stood out clearly from wavering words about a man and a box.  She gathered at last that somewhere or other this number with the light shining on it had attracted Perine’s attention, that she went to look, and that a man pushed her away with a blow, and with threats which had been strong enough to send her terrified from the spot.  Evidently she scarcely felt secure in her present quarters, and piteously implored Marie not to suffer him to come.  Marie soothed her, and hoped that Jean’s compassion might be as strong as her own.  Had she not been taken up with Perine, she would have more quickly caught the impatient scratching like a mouse in the wainscot, with which he summoned her.

He made signs that he must speak, and with some difficulty she got Perine into the landing, thrusting into her hands the bread which would have been her own portion.  Then she locked her door and went back to Jean, who was eagerly waiting.

“Marie, I have a thought,” he began.  “What do you make out of all she says?”

“Next to nothing,” said his wife, shrugging her shoulders.

“No?” said Jean, feverishly and a little contemptuously.  “Suppose I suggested that she saw the figures on the lamp of a cab, what then?”

“What then?” repeated she, puzzled.

“And a box, and a man angry with her for looking.  What then?”

“Oh, I don’t understand!” said Marie, shaking her head.

“Heavens, that any one should be so dense!  Have you forgotten the robbery?”

“In the Rue Vivienne—­oh, do you mean—­do you think it possible!  Jean, how clever you are!  I wonder whether—­shall I run to the place and see?”

“To the place, and even if they were still there, get yourself knocked on the head!”

“I should not mind,” cried Marie eagerly.  “I should mind nothing with such a hope before me.”

“No, my good Marie,” Jean returned grandly; “you have excellent intentions, but it is well you have some one to guide you.  The first thing is to find a commissaire of police.”