“I beg pardon,” she now said.  “We have had quite an invasion.”

Then, in an affectionate way, she entered into conversation with Helene.  She seemed to know some details of her history, doubtless from the gossip of her servants.  With a boldness that was yet full of tact, and appeared instinct with much friendliness, she spoke to Helene of her husband, and of his sad death at the Hotel du Var, in the Rue de Richelieu.

“And you had just arrived, hadn’t you?  You had never been in Paris before.  It must be awful to be plunged into mourning, in a strange room, the day after a long journey, and when one doesn’t know a single place to go to.”

Helene assented with a slow nod.  Yes, she had spent some very bitter hours.  The disease which carried off her husband had abruptly declared itself on the day after their arrival, just as they were going out together.  She knew none of the streets, and was wholly unaware what district she was in.  For eight days she had remained at the bedside of the dying man, hearing the rumble of Paris beneath her window, feeling she was alone, deserted, lost, as though plunged in the depths of an abyss.  When she stepped out on the pavement for the first time, she was a widow.  The mere recalling of that bare room, with its rows of medicine bottles, and with the travelling trunks standing about unpacked, still made her shudder.

“Was your husband, as I’ve been told, nearly twice your age?” asked Madame Deberle with an appearance of profound interest, while Mademoiselle Aurelie cocked her ears so as not to lose a syllable of the conversation.

“Oh, no!” replied Helene.  “He was scarcely six years older.”

Then she ventured to enter into the story of her marriage, telling in a few brief sentences how her husband had fallen deeply in love with her while she was living with her father, Monsieur Mouret, a hatter in the Rue des Petites-Maries, at Marseilles; how the Grandjean family, who were rich sugar-refiners, were bitterly opposed to the match, on account of her poverty.  She spoke, too, of the ill-omened and secret wedding after the usual legal formalities, and of their hand-to-mouth existence, till the day an uncle on dying left them some ten thousand francs a year.  It was then that Grandjean, within whom an intense hatred of Marseilles was growing, had decided on coming to Paris, to live there for good.

“And how old were you when you were married?” was Madame Deberle’s next question.

“Seventeen.”

“You must have been very beautiful.”

The conversation suddenly ceased, for Helene had not seemed to hear the remark.

“Madame Manguelin!” announced the footman.

A young, retiring woman, evidently ill at ease, was ushered in.  Madame Deberle scarcely rose.  It was one of her dependents, who had called to thank her for some service performed.  The visitor only remained for a few minutes, and left the room with a courtesy.