“And that is little enough,” responded the old vegetable-vendor, still laughing, or rather chuckling hoarsely—­“A blessing is not worth much nowadays, is it Martine?  It never puts an extra ounce of meat in the pot-au-feu,—­and yet it is all one gets out of the priests for all the prayers and the praise.  Last time I went to confession I accused myself of the sin of envy.  I said ’Look here, my father, I am a widow and very old; and I have rheumatism in all my bones, and I have only a bit of matting to sleep on at home, and if I have a bad day with the market I can buy no food.  And there is a woman living near me who has a warm house, with a stove in it,—­ and blankets to cover her, and a bit of money put by, and I envy her her blankets and her stove and her house and her money.  Is that a sin?’ And he said it was a sin; but that he would absolve me from it if I said ten Paters and ten Aves before Our Lady of Bon-Secours.  And then he gave me his blessing,—­but no blankets and no stove and no money.  And I have not said ten Paters and Aves yet, because my bones have ached too much all the week for me to walk up the hill to Bon-Secours.  And the blessing has been no use to me at all.”

“Nor is it likely to be!” scoffed Martine—­“I thought you had given up all that Church-nonsense long ago.”

“Nay—­nay—­not altogether,”—­murmured the old woman timidly—­“I am very old,—­and one never knows—­there may be truth in some of it.  It is the burning and the roasting in hell that I think of,—­you know that is very likely to happen, Martine!—­because you see, in this life we have nothing but trouble,—­so whoever made us must like to see us suffering;—­it must be a pleasure to God, and so it is sure to go on and on always.  And I am afraid!—­and if a candle now and then to St. Joseph would help matters, I am not the one to grudge it,—­it is better to burn a candle than burn one’s self!”

Martine laughed loudly, but made no answer.  She could not waste her time arguing against the ridiculous superstitions of an old creature who was so steeped in ignorance as to think that a votive candle could rescue her soul from a possible hell.  She went on knitting in silence till a sudden shadow came between her and the sunlight, and a girl’s voice, harsh, yet with a certain broken sweetness in it, said—­

“A fine morning’s killing, aye!  All their necks wrung,—­all dead birds!  Once they could fly—­fly and swim!  Fly and swim!  All dead now—­and sold cheap in the open market!”

A shrill laugh finished this outburst, but Martine knew who it was that spoke, and maintained her equanimity.

“Is that you again, Marguerite?” she said, not unkindly—­“You will tire yourself to death wandering about the streets all day.”