osed the door after her. She
recognized me.

"Monsieur Mouillard! What a pleasant surprise!"

She held out her hand to me so frankly and gracefully that I gave her
mine, and felt sure, from the firm, expressive way in which she clasped
it, that Madame Plumet was really pleased to see me. Her ruddy cheeks and
bright eyes recalled my first impression of her, the little dressmaker
running from the workshop to the office, full of her love for M. Plumet
and her grievances against the wicked cabinetmaker.

"What, you are back again with Counsellor Boule? I am surprised!"

"So am I, Madame Plumet, very much surprised. But such is life! How is
Master Pierre progressing?"

"Not quite so well, poor darling, since I weaned him. I had to wean him,
Monsieur Mouillard, because I have gone back to my old trade."

"Dressmaking?"

"Yes, on my own account this time. I have taken the flat opposite to
ours, on the same floor. Plumet makes frames, while I make gowns. I have
already three workgirls, and enough customers to give me a start. I do
not charge them very dear to begin with.

"One of my customers was a very nice young lady--you know who! I have not
talked to her of you, but I have often wanted to. By the way, Monsieur
Mouillard, did I do my errand well?"

"What errand?"

"The important one, about the portrait at the Salon."

"Oh, yes; very well indeed. I must thank you."

"She came?"

"Yes, with her father."

"She must have been pleased! The drawing was so pretty. Plumet, who is
not much of a talker, is never tired of praising it. I tell you, he and I
did not spare ourselves. He made a bit of a fuss before he would take the
order; he was in a hurry--such a hurry; but when he saw that I was bent
on it he gave in. And it is not the first time he has given in. Plumet is
a good soul, Monsieur Mouillard. When you know him better you will see
what a good soul he is. Well, while he was cutting out the frame, I went
to the porter's wife. What a business it was! I am glad my errand was
successful!"

"It was too good of you, Madame Plumet; but it was useless, alas! she is
to marry another."

"Marry another? Impossible!"

I thought Madame Plumet was about to faint. Had she heard that her son
Pierre had the croup, she could not have been more upset. Her bosom
heaved, she clasped her hands, and gazed at me with sorrowful compassion.

"Poor Monsieur Mouillard!"

And two tears, two real tears, coursed down Madame Plumet's