love had been drawn closer by the flowers and the chanting; and they
shunned all conversation, for their hearts were on their lips.

A fortnight slipped away, and Madame Deberle grew wearied. She ever
jumped from one thing to the other, consumed with the thirst of doing
what every one else was doing. For the moment charity bazaars had
become her craze; she would toil up sixty flights of stairs of an
afternoon to beg paintings of well-known artists, while her evenings
were spent in presiding over meetings of lady patronesses, with a bell
handy to call noisy members to order. Thus it happened that one
Thursday evening Helene and her daughter went to church without their
companions. On the conclusion of the sermon, while the choristers were
commencing the _Magnificat_, the young woman, forewarned by some
impulse of her heart, turned her head. Henri was there, in his usual
place. Thereupon she remained with looks riveted to the ground till
the service came to an end, waiting the while for the return home.

"Oh, how kind of you to come!" said Jeanne, with all a child's
frankness, as they left the church. "I should have been afraid to go
alone through these dark streets."

Henri, however, feigned astonishment, asserting that he had expected
to meet his wife. Helene allowed the child to answer him, and followed
them without uttering a word. As the trio passed under the porch a
pitiful voice sang out: "Charity, charity! May God repay you!"

Every night Jeanne dropped a ten-sou piece into Mother Fetu's hand.
When the latter saw the doctor alone with Helene, she nodded her head
knowingly, instead of breaking out into a storm of thanks, as was her
custom. The church was now empty, and she began to follow them,
mumbling inaudible sentences. Sometimes, instead of returning by the
Rue de Passy, the ladies, when the night was fine, went homewards by
the Rue Raynouard, the way being thus lengthened by five or six
minutes' walk. That night also Helene turned into the Rue Raynouard,
craving for gloom and stillness, and entranced by the loneliness of
the long thoroughfare, which was lighted by only a few gas-lamps,
without the shadow of a single passer-by falling across its pavement.

At this hour Passy seemed out of the world; sleep had already fallen
over it; it had all the quietude of a provincial town. On each side of
the street loomed mansions, girls' schools, black and silent, and
dining places, from the kitchens of which light