“As briefly as possible, I wrote out the history of my life from the day I had been left with the gardeners at Louveciennes.  I added to it a faithful account of my present situation; and I addressed the whole to Mme. de Thaller.

“‘You’ll see if she don’t come before a day or two,’ said the sisters.

“They were mistaken.  Mme. de Thaller came neither the next nor the following days; and I was still awaiting her answer, when, one morning, the doctor announced that I was well enough to leave the hospital.

“I cannot say that I was very sorry.  I had lately made the acquaintance of a young workwoman, who had been sent to the hospital in consequence of a fall, and who occupied the bed next to mine.  She was a girl of about twenty, very gentle, very obliging, and whose amiable countenance had attracted me from the first.

“Like myself, she had no parents.  But she was rich, very rich.  She owned the furniture of the room, a sewing-machine, which had cost her three hundred francs, and, like a true child of Paris, she understood five or six trades, the least lucrative of which yielded her twenty-five or thirty cents a day.  In less than a week, we had become good friends; and, when she left the hospital,

“‘Believe me,’ she said:  ’when you come out yourself, don’t waste your time looking for a place.  Come to me:  I can accommodate you.  I’ll teach you what I know; and, if you are industrious, you’ll make your living, and you’ll be free.’

“It was to her room that I went straight from the hospital, carrying, tied in a handkerchief, my entire baggage,—­one dress, and a few undergarments that the good sisters had given me.

“She received me like a sister, and after showing me her lodging, two little attic-rooms shining with cleanliness,

“‘You’ll see,’ she said, kissing me, ‘how happy we’ll be here.’”

It was getting late.  M. Fortin had long ago come up and put out the gas on the stairs.  One by one, every noise had died away in the hotel.  Nothing now disturbed the silence of the night save the distant sound of some belated cab on the Boulevard.  But neither Maxence nor Mlle. Lucienne were noticing the flight of time, so interested were they, one in telling, and the other in listening to, this story of a wonderful existence.  However, Mlle. Lucienne’s voice had become hoarse with fatigue.  She poured herself a glass of water, which she emptied at a draught, and then at once,

“Never yet,” she resumed, “had I been agitated by such a sweet sensation.  My eyes were full of tears; but they were tears of gratitude and joy.  After so many years of isolation, to meet with such a friend, so generous, and so devoted:  it was like finding a family.  For a few weeks, I thought that fate had relented at last.  My friend was an excellent workwoman; but with some intelligence, and the will to learn, I soon knew as much as she did.