sou for the cares they would bestow upon me.  They kept me, nevertheless, thinking that one child the more would not make much difference.  I know nothing of my parents, therefore, except what I heard through these kind gardeners; and, as I was still quite young when I had the misfortune to lose them, I have but a very vague remembrance of what they told me.  I remember very well, however, that according to their statements, my mother was a young working-woman of rare beauty, and that, very likely, she was not my father’s wife.  If I was ever told the name of my mother or my father, if I ever knew it, I have quite forgotten it.  I had myself no name.  My adopted parents called me the Parisian.  I was happy, nevertheless, with these kind people, and treated exactly like their own children.  In winter, they sent me to school; in summer, I helped weeding the garden.  I drove a sheep or two along the road, or else I went to gather violets and strawberries through the woods.

“This was the happiest, indeed, the only happy time of my life, towards which my thoughts may turn when I feel despair and discouragement getting the better of me.  Alas!  I was but eight, when, within the same week, the gardener and his wife were both carried off by the same disease,—­inflammation of the lungs.

“On a freezing December morning, in that house upon which the hand of death had just fallen, we found ourselves, six children, the oldest of whom was not eleven, crying with grief, fright, cold, and hunger.

“Neither the gardener nor his wife had any relatives; and they left nothing but a few wretched pieces of furniture, the sale of which barely sufficed to pay the expenses of their funeral.  The two younger children were taken to an asylum:  the others were taken charge of by the neighbors.

“It was a laundress of Marly who took me.  I was quite tall and strong for my age.  She made an apprentice of me.  She was not unkind by nature; but she was violent and brutal in the extreme.  She compelled me to do an excessive amount of work, and often of a kind above my strength.

“Fifty times a day, I had to go from the river to the house, carrying on my shoulders enormous bundles of wet napkins or sheets, wring them, spread them out, and then run to Rueil to get the soiled clothes from the customers.  I did not complain (I was already too proud to complain); but, if I was ordered to do something that seemed to me too unjust, I refused obstinately to obey, and then I was unmercifully beaten.  In spite of all, I might, perhaps, have become attached to the woman, had she not had the disgusting habit of drinking.  Every week regularly, on the day when she took the clothes to Paris (it was on Wednesdays), she came home drunk.  And then, according as, with the fumes of the wine, anger or gayety rose to her brain, there were atrocious scenes or obscene jests.

“When she was in that condition, she inspired me with horror.  And one Wednesday, as I showed my feelings too plainly, she struck me so hard, that she broke my arm.  I had been with her for twenty months.  The injury she had done me sobered her at once.  She became frightened, overpowered me with caresses, begging me to say nothing to any one.  I promised, and kept faithfully my word.