Helene sat a long time plunged in the stupor which
the information, supplied by this woman with such fortuitous
seasonableness, had brought upon her. She now knew the place of
assignation. It was a room, with pink decorations, in that old
tumbledown house! She once more pictured to herself the staircase
oozing with damp, the yellow doors on each landing, grimy with the
touch of greasy hands, and all the wretchedness which had stirred her
heart to pity when she had gone during the previous winter to visit
Mother Fetu; and she also strove to conjure up a vision of that pink
chamber in the midst of such repulsive, poverty-stricken surroundings.
However, whilst she was still absorbed in her reverie, two tiny warm
hands were placed over her eyes, which lack of sleep had reddened, and
a laughing voice inquired: "Who is it? who is it?"

It was Jeanne, who had slipped into her clothes without assistance.
Mother Fetu's voice had awakened her; and perceiving that the closet
door had been shut, she had made her toilet with the utmost speed in
order to give her mother a surprise.

"Who is it? who is it?" she again inquired, convulsed more and more
with laughter.

She turned to Rosalie, who entered at the moment with the breakfast.

"You know; don't you speak. Nobody is asking you any question."

"Be quiet, you little madcap!" exclaimed Helene. "I suppose it's you!"

The child slipped on to her mother's lap, and there, leaning back and
swinging to and fro, delighted with the amusement she had devised, she
resumed:

"Well, it might have been another little girl! Eh? Perhaps some little
girl who had brought you a letter of invitation to dine with her
mamma. And she might have covered your eyes, too!"

"Don't be silly," exclaimed Helene, as she set her on the floor. "What
are you talking about? Rosalie, let us have breakfast."

The maid's eyes, however, were riveted on the child, and she commented
upon her little mistress being so oddly dressed. To tell the truth, so
great had been Jeanne's haste that she had not put on her shoes. She
had drawn on a short flannel petticoat which allowed a glimpse of her
chemise, and had left her morning jacket open, so that you could see
her delicate, undeveloped bosom. With her hair streaming behind her,
stamping about in her stockings, which were all awry, she looked
charming, all in white like some child of fairyland.

She cast down her eyes to see herself, and immediately burst into
la