She was so busy with these fancies that she did not hear the stopping of the click-click of Marcelline’s knitting needles, nor did she hear the old nurse get up from her chair and go out of the room.  A few minutes before, the facteur had rung at the great wooden gates of the courtyard—­a rather rare event, for in those days letters came only twice a week—­but this, too, little Jeanne had not heard.  She must have grown drowsy with the quiet and the heat of the fire, for she quite started when the door again opened, and Marcelline’s voice told her that her mother wanted her to go down to the salon, she had something to say to her.

“O Marcelline,” said Jeanne, rubbing her eyes, “I didn’t know you had gone away.  What does mamma want?  O Marcelline, I am so sleepy, I would like to go to bed.”

“To go to bed, Mademoiselle, and not yet five o’clock!  Oh no, you will wake up nicely by the time you get down to the salon.”

“I am so tired, Marcelline,” persisted Jeanne.  “These winter days it is so dull.  I don’t mind in summer, for then I can play in the garden with Dudu and the tortoise, and all the creatures.  But in winter it is so dull.  I would not be tired if I had a little friend to play with me.”

“Keep up your heart, Mademoiselle.  Stranger things have happened than that you should have some one to play with.”

“What do you mean, Marcelline?” said Jeanne, curiously.  “Do you know something, Marcelline?  Tell me, do.  Did you know what my wish was?” she added, eagerly.

“I know, Mademoiselle, that Madame will be waiting for you in the salon.  We can talk about your wish later; when I am putting you to bed.”

She would say no more, but smoothed Jeanne’s soft dark hair, never very untidy it must be owned, for it was always neatly plaited in two tails that hung down her back, as was then the fashion for little girls of Jeanne’s age and country, and bade her again not to delay going downstairs.

Jeanne set off.  In that great rambling old house it was really quite a journey from her room to her mother’s salon.  There was the long corridor to pass, at one end of which were Jeanne’s quarters, at the other a room which had had for her since her babyhood a mingled fascination and awe.  It was hung with tapestry, very old, and in some parts faded, but still distinct.  As Jeanne passed by the door of this room, she noticed that it was open, and the gleam of the faint moonlight on the snow-covered garden outside attracted her.

“I can see the terrace ever so much better from the tapestry room window,” she said to herself.  “I wonder what Dudu is doing, poor old fellow.  Oh, how cold he must be!  I suppose Grignan is asleep in a hole in the hedge, and the chickens will be all right any way.  I have not seen Houpet all day.”