izes the chance. "It'll do very likely. May we see it?"

"We do the washing there," mutters the woman, continuing to wield her
broom.

"You know," says Barque, with a smile and an engaging air, "we're not
like those disagreeable people who get drunk and make themselves a
nuisance. May we have a look?"

The woman has let her broom rest. She is thin and inconspicuous. Her
jacket hangs from her shoulders as from a valise. Her face is like
cardboard, stiff and without expression. She looks at us and hesitates,
then grudgingly leads the way into a very dark little place, made of
beaten earth and piled with dirty linen.

"It's splendid," cries Lamuse, in all honesty.

"Isn't she a darling, the little kiddie!" says Barque, as he pats the
round cheek, like painted india-rubber, of a little girl who is staring
at us with her dirty little nose uplifted in the gloom. "Is she yours,
madame?"

"And that one, too?" risks Marthereau, as he espies an over-ripe infant
on whose bladder-like cheeks are shining deposits of jam, for the
ensnaring of the dust in the air. He offers a half-hearted caress in
the direction of the moist and bedaubed countenance. The woman does not
deign an answer.

So there we are, trifling and grinning, like beggars whose plea still
hangs fire.

Lamuse whispers to me, in a torment of fear and cupidity, "Let's hope
she'll catch on, the filthy old slut. It's grand here, and, you know,
everything else is pinched!"

"There's no table," the woman says at last.

"Don't worry about the table," Barque exclaims. "Tenez! there, put away
in that corner, the old door; that would make us a table."

"You're not going to trail me about and upset all my work!" replies the
cardboard woman suspiciously, and with obvious regret that she had not
chased us away immediately.

"Don't worry, I tell you. Look, I'll show you. Hey, Lamuse, old cock,
give me a hand."

Under the displeased glances of the virago we place the old door on a
couple of barrels.

"With a bit of a rub-down," says I, "that will be perfect."

"Eh, oui, maman, a flick with a brush'll do us instead of tablecloth."

The woman hardly knows what to say; she watches us spitefully: "There's
only two stools, and how many are there of you?"

"About a dozen."

"A dozen. Jesus Maria!"

"What does it matter? That'll be all right, seeing there's a plank
here--and that's a bench ready-made, eh, Lamuse?"

"Course," says Lamuse.

"I want that plank," sa