The next morning, Pierrette being, like all country children, accustomed to get up early, was awake two hours before the cook.  She dressed herself, stepping on tiptoe about her room, looked out at the little square, started to go downstairs and was struck with amazement by the beauties of the staircase.  She stopped to examine all its details:  the painted walls, the brasses, the various ornamentations, the window fixtures.  Then she went down to the garden-door, but was unable to open it, and returned to her room to wait until Adele should be stirring.  As soon as the woman went to the kitchen Pierrette flew to the garden and took possession of it, ran to the river, was amazed at the kiosk, and sat down in it; truly, she had enough to see and to wonder at until her cousins were up.  At breakfast Sylvie said to her:—­

“Was it you, little one, who was trotting over my head by daybreak, and making that racket on the stairs?  You woke me so that I couldn’t go to sleep again.  You must be very good and quiet, and amuse yourself without noise.  Your cousin doesn’t like noise.”

“And you must wipe your feet,” said Rogron.  “You went into the kiosk with your dirty shoes, and they’ve tracked all over the floor.  Your cousin likes cleanliness.  A great girl like you ought to be clean.  Weren’t you clean in Brittany?  But I recollect when I went down there to buy thread it was pitiable to see the folks,—­they were like savages.  At any rate she has a good appetite,” added Rogron, looking at his sister; “one would think she hadn’t eaten anything for days.”

Thus, from the very start Pierrette was hurt by the remarks of her two cousins,—­hurt, she knew not why.  Her straightforward, open nature, hitherto left to itself, was not given to reflection.  Incapable of thinking that her cousins were hard, she was fated to find it out slowly through suffering.  After breakfast the brother and sister, pleased with Pierrette’s astonishment at the house and anxious to enjoy it, took her to the salon to show her its splendors and teach her not to touch them.  Many celibates, driven by loneliness and the moral necessity of caring for something, substitute factitious affections for natural ones; they love dogs, cats, canaries, servants, or their confessor.  Rogron and Sylvie had come to the pass of loving immoderately their house and furniture, which had cost them so dear.  Sylvie began by helping Adele in the mornings to dust and arrange the furniture, under pretence that she did not know how to keep it looking as good as new.  This dusting was soon a desired occupation to her, and the furniture, instead of losing its value in her eyes, became ever more precious.  To use things without hurting them or soiling them or scratching the woodwork or clouding the varnish, that was the problem which soon became the mania of the old maid’s life.  Sylvie had a closet full of bits of wool, wax, varnish, and brushes, which she had learned to use with the dexterity of a cabinet-maker; she had her feather dusters and her dusting-cloths; and she rubbed away without fear of hurting herself,—­she was so strong.  The glance of her cold blue eyes, hard as steel, was forever roving over the furniture and under it, and you could as soon have found a tender spot in her heart as a bit of fluff under the sofa.