fists, by heels keeping time to the choruses, and the shrill cries of
the women, mingled with the roar of their songs.

He felt her leaning on him, clasping him, ashamed and frightened, his
sister. Then, in a whisper, lest anyone might hear him, so hushed that
she could scarcely catch his words:

"What a misfortune! I have made a nice piece of work of it!"

The next moment, her eyes filled with tears, and she faltered:

"Is that my fault?"

But, all of a sudden, he said:

"So then, they are dead?"

"They are dead."

"The father, the mother, and the brother?"

"The three in one month, and I told you. I was left by myself with
nothing but my clothes, for I was in debt to the apothecary and the
doctor and for the funeral of the three, and had to pay what I owed with
the furniture."

"After that I went as a servant to the house of Mait'e Cacheux--you know
him well--the cripple. I was just fifteen at the time, for you went away
when I was not quite fourteen. I tripped with him. One is so senseless
when one is young. Then I went as a nursery-maid to the notary who
debauched me also, and brought me to Havre, where he took a room for me.
After a little while, he gave up coming to see me. For three days I lived
without eating a morsel of food; and then, not being able to get
employment, I went to a house, like many others. I, too, have seen
different places--ah! and dirty places! Rouen, Evreux, Lille, Bordeaux,
Perpignan, Nice, and then Marseilles, where I am now!"

The tears started from her eyes, flowed over her nose, wet her cheeks,
and trickled into her mouth.

She went on:

"I thought you were dead, too?--my poor Celestin."

He said:

"I would not have recognized you myself--you were such a little thing
then, and here you are so big!--but how is it that you did not recognize
me?"

She answered with a despairing movement of her hands:

"I see so many men that they all seem to me alike."

He kept his eyes still fixed on her intently, oppressed by an emotion
that dazed him, and filled him with such pain as to make him long to cry
like a little child that has been whipped. He still held her in his
arms, while she sat astride on his knees, with his open hands against the
girl's back; and now by sheer dint of looking continually at her, he at
length recognized her, the little sister left behind in the country with
all those whom she had seen die, while he had been tossing on the seas.
Then, suddenly taking