I think, have redeemed a plainer face.  It was wide, and deep set into the cheeks at the corners; the upper lip was very much arched, and hardly closed over the teeth; so that the whole face looked (from the serious, intent look in the eyes, and the sweet intelligence of the mouth) as if she were listening eagerly to something to which her answer was quite ready, and would come out of those red, opening lips as soon as ever you had done speaking, and you longed to know what she would say.

“Well:  this Virginie de Crequy was living with Madame Babette in the conciergerie of an old French inn, somewhere to the north of Paris, so, far enough from Clement’s refuge.  The inn had been frequented by farmers from Brittany and such kind of people, in the days when that sort of intercourse went on between Paris and the provinces which had nearly stopped now.  Few Bretons came near it now, and the inn had fallen into the hands of Madame Babette’s brother, as payment for a bad wine debt of the last proprietor.  He put his sister and her child in, to keep it open, as it were, and sent all the people he could to occupy the half-furnished rooms of the house.  They paid Babette for their lodging every morning as they went out to breakfast, and returned or not as they chose, at night.  Every three days, the wine-merchant or his son came to Madame Babette, and she accounted to them for the money she had received.  She and her child occupied the porter’s office (in which the lad slept at nights) and a little miserable bed-room which opened out of it, and received all the light and air that was admitted through the door of communication, which was half glass.  Madame Babette must have had a kind of attachment for the De Crequys—­her De Crequys, you understand—­Virginie’s father, the Count; for, at some risk to herself, she had warned both him and his daughter of the danger impending over them.  But he, infatuated, would not believe that his dear Human Race could ever do him harm; and, as long as he did not fear, Virginie was not afraid.  It was by some ruse, the nature of which I never heard, that Madame Babette induced Virginie to come to her abode at the very hour in which the Count had been recognized in the streets, and hurried off to the Lanterne.  It was after Babette had got her there, safe shut up in the little back den, that she told her what had befallen her father.  From that day, Virginie had never stirred out of the gates, or crossed the threshold of the porter’s lodge.  I do not say that Madame Babette was tired of her continual presence, or regretted the impulse which made her rush to the De Crequy’s well-known house—­after being compelled to form one of the mad crowds that saw the Count de Crequy seized and hung—­and hurry his daughter out, through alleys and backways, until at length she had the orphan safe in her own dark sleeping-room, and could tell her tale of horror:  but Madame Babette was poorly paid for her porter’s work by her avaricious