nd a rosary at the bottom of a trunk; she hardly
knew how to use it, but often fumbled the beads in her trembling
fingers. She had lived to grow old without any overt exercise of her
religion, but she had always been a pious woman, and she would pray to
God all day long, in the chimney corner, to save her boy and that good,
kind Monsieur Brotteaux. Elodie often came to see her; they durst not
look each other in the eyes, and sitting side by side they would talk at
random of indifferent matters.

One day in Pluviose, when the snow, falling in heavy flakes, darkened
the sky and deadened the noises of the city, the _citoyenne_ Gamelin,
who was alone in the lodging heard a knock at the door. She started
violently; for months now the slightest noise had set her trembling. She
opened the door. A young man of eighteen or twenty walked in, his hat on
his head. He was dressed in a bottle-green box-coat, the triple collar
of which covered his bust and descended to the waist. He wore top-boots
of an English cut. His chestnut hair fell in ringlets about his
shoulders. He stepped into the middle of the studio, as if wishful that
all the light admitted by the snow-encumbered skylight might fall on
him, and stood there some moments without moving or speaking.

At last, in answer to the _citoyenne_ Gamelin's look of amazement:

"Don't you know your daughter?"

The old dame clasped her hands:

"Julie!... It is you.... Good God! is it possible?..."

"Why, yes, it is I. Kiss me, mother."

The _citoyenne_ Gamelin pressed her daughter to her bosom, and dropped a
tear on the collar of the box-coat. Then she began again in an anxious
voice:

"You, in Paris!..."

"Ah! mother, but why did I not come alone! For myself, they will never
know me in this dress."

It was a fact the box-coat sufficiently disguised her shape, and she did
not look very different from a great many very young men, who, like her,
wore their hair long and parted in two masses on the forehead. Her
features, which were delicately cut and charming, but burnt by the sun,
drawn with fatigue, worn with anxiety, had a bold, masculine
expression. She was slim, with long straight limbs and an easy
carriage; only the clear treble of her voice could have betrayed her
sex.

Her mother asked her if she was hungry. She said she would be glad of
something to eat, and when bread, wine and ham had been set before her,
she fell to, one elbow on the table, with a pretty gluttony