sat down in it; truly, she had enough to see and to wonder at until her
cousins were up. At breakfast Sylvie said to her:--

"Was it you, little one, who was trotting over my head by daybreak, and
making that racket on the stairs? You woke me so that I couldn't go to
sleep again. You must be very good and quiet, and amuse yourself without
noise. Your cousin doesn't like noise."

"And you must wipe your feet," said Rogron. "You went into the kiosk
with your dirty shoes, and they've tracked all over the floor. Your
cousin likes cleanliness. A great girl like you ought to be clean.
Weren't you clean in Brittany? But I recollect when I went down there to
buy thread it was pitiable to see the folks,--they were like savages. At
any rate she has a good appetite," added Rogron, looking at his sister;
"one would think she hadn't eaten anything for days."

Thus, from the very start Pierrette was hurt by the remarks of her two
cousins,--hurt, she knew not why. Her straightforward, open nature,
hitherto left to itself, was not given to reflection. Incapable of
thinking that her cousins were hard, she was fated to find it out slowly
through suffering. After breakfast the brother and sister, pleased with
Pierrette's astonishment at the house and anxious to enjoy it, took her
to the salon to show her its splendors and teach her not to touch them.
Many celibates, driven by loneliness and the moral necessity of caring
for something, substitute factitious affections for natural ones; they
love dogs, cats, canaries, servants, or their confessor. Rogron and
Sylvie had come to the pass of loving immoderately their house and
furniture, which had cost them so dear. Sylvie began by helping Adele in
the mornings to dust and arrange the furniture, under pretence that she
did not know how to keep it looking as good as new. This dusting was
soon a desired occupation to her, and the furniture, instead of losing
its value in her eyes, became ever more precious. To use things without
hurting them or soiling them or scratching the woodwork or clouding the
varnish, that was the problem which soon became the mania of the old
maid's life. Sylvie had a closet full of bits of wool, wax, varnish,
and brushes, which she had learned to use with the dexterity of a
cabinet-maker; she had her feather dusters and her dusting-cloths; and
she rubbed away without fear of hurting herself,--she was so strong. The
glance of her cold blue eyes, hard as steel, was fore