I was nursing so carefully. As soon as I
could make myself understood, I went out occasionally after dark, to buy
bread-and-milk.

Noireau was a curious town, the streets everywhere steep and narrow, and
the houses, pell-mell, rich and poor, large and small huddled together
without order. Almost opposite the handsome dwelling, the photograph of
which had misled me, stood a little house where I could buy rich, creamy
milk. It was sold by a Mademoiselle Rosalie, an old maid, whom I
generally found solitarily reading a _Journal pour Tous_ with her feet
upon a _chaufferette_, and no light save that of her little oil-lamp.
She had never sat by a fire in her life, she told me, burning her face
and spoiling her _teint_. Her dwelling consisted of a single room, with
a shed opening out of it, where she kept her milkpans. She was the only
person I spoke to out of Madame Perrier's own household.

"Is Monsieur Perrier an avocat?" I asked her one day, as soon as I could
understand what she might say in reply. There was very little doubt in
my mind as to what her answer would be.

"An avocat, mademoiselle?" She repeated, shrugging her shoulders; "who
has told you that? Are the avocats in England like Emile? He is my
relation, and you see me! He is a bailiff; do you understand? If I go in
debt, he comes and takes possession of my goods, you see. It is very
simple. One need not be very learned to do that. Emile Perrier an
avocat? Bah!"

"What is an avocat?" I inquired.

"An avocat is even higher than a notaire," she answered; "he gives
counsel; he pleads before the judges. It is a high _role_. One must be
very learned, very eloquent, to be an avocat."

"I suppose he must be a gentleman," I remarked.

"A gentleman, mademoiselle?" she said; "I do not understand you. There
is equality in France. We are all messieurs and mesdames. There is
monsieur the bailiff, and monsieur the duke; and there is madame the
washer-woman, and madame the duchess. We are all gentlemen, all ladies.
It is not the same in your country."

"Not at all," I answered.

"Did my little Emile tell you he was an avocat, mademoiselle?" she
asked.

"No," I said. I was on my guard, even if I had known French well enough
to explain the deception practised upon me. She looked as if she did not
believe me, but smiled and nodded with imperturbable politeness, as I
carried off my jug of milk.

So Monsieur Perrier was nothing higher than a bailiff, and with very
l