However, Paulette now helps her to make bandboxes, her little sister Perrine begins to use the needle, and her brother Henry is apprentice to a printer.  All would go well if it were not for losses and want of work—­if it were not for clothes which wear out, for appetites which grow larger, and for the winter, when you cannot get sunshine for nothing.  Paulette complains that her candles go too quickly, and that her wood costs too much.  The fireplace in their garret is so large that a fagot makes no more show in it than a match; it is so near the roof that the wind blows the rain down it, and in winter it hails upon the hearth; so they have left off using it.  Henceforth they must be content with an earthen chafing-dish, upon which they cook their meals.  The grandmother had often spoken of a stove that was for sale at the broker’s close by; but he asked seven francs for it, and the times are too hard for such an expense:  the family, therefore, resign themselves to cold for economy!

As Paulette spoke, I felt more and more that I was losing my fretfulness and low spirits.  The first disclosures of the little bandbox-maker created within me a wish that soon became a plan.  I questioned her about her daily occupations, and she informed me that on leaving me she must go, with her brother, her sister, and grandmother, to the different people for whom they work.  My plan was immediately settled.  I told the child that I would go to see her in the evening, and I sent her away with fresh thanks.

I placed the wallflower in the open window, where a ray of sunshine bid it welcome; the birds were singing around, the sky had cleared up, and the day, which began so loweringly, had become bright.  I sang as I moved about my room, and, having hastily put on my hat and coat, I went out.

Three o’clock.—­All is settled with my neighbor, the chimney-doctor; he will repair my old stove, and answers for its being as good as new.  At five o’clock we are to set out, and put it up in Paulette’s grandmother’s room.

Midnight.—­All has gone off well.  At the hour agreed upon, I was at the old bandbox-maker’s; she was still out.  My Piedmontese

   [In Paris a chimney-sweeper is named “Piedmontese” or “Savoyard,”
   as they usually come from that country.]

fixed the stove, while I arranged a dozen logs in the great fireplace, taken from my winter stock.  I shall make up for them by warming myself with walking, or by going to bed earlier.

My heart beat at every step that was heard on the staircase; I trembled lest they should interrupt me in my preparations, and should thus spoil my intended surprise.  But no!—­see everything ready:  the lighted stove murmurs gently, the little lamp burns upon the table, and a bottle of oil for it is provided on the shelf.  The chimney-doctor is gone.  Now my fear lest they should come is changed into impatience at their not coming.  At last I hear children’s voices; here they are:  they push open the door and rush in—­but they all stop in astonishment.