Madame Deberle then resumed the conversation, and spoke of Abbe Jouve, with whom both were acquainted.  The Abbe was a meek officiating priest at Notre-Dame-de-Grace, the parish church of Passy; however, his charity was such that he was more beloved and more respectfully hearkened to than any other priest in the district.

“Oh, he has such pious eloquence!” exclaimed Madame Deberle, with a sanctimonious look.

“He has been very kind to us,” said Helene.  “My husband had formerly known him at Marseilles.  The moment he heard of my misfortune he took charge of everything.  To him we owe our settling in Passy.”

“He has a brother, hasn’t he?” questioned Juliette.

“Yes, a step-brother, for his mother married again.  Monsieur Rambaud was also acquainted with my husband.  He has started a large business in the Rue de Rambuteau, where he sells oils and other Southern produce.  I believe he makes a large amount of money by it.”  And she added, with a laugh:  “The Abbe and his brother make up my court.”

Jeanne, sitting on the edge of her chair, and wearied to death, now cast an impatient look at her mother.  Her long, delicate, lamb-like face wore a pained expression, as if she disliked all this conversation; and she appeared at times to sniff the heavy, oppressive odors floating in the room, while casting suspicious side-glances at the furniture, as though her own exquisite sensibility warned her of some undefined dangers.  Finally, however, she turned a look of tyrannical worship on her mother.

Madame Deberle noticed the child’s uneasiness.

“Here’s a little girl,” she said, “who feels tired at being serious, like a grown-up person.  There are some picture-books on the table, dear; they will amuse you.”

Jeanne took up an album, but her eyes strayed from it to glance imploringly at her mother.  Helene, charmed by her hostess’s excessive kindness, did not move; there was nothing of the fidget in her, and she would of her own accord remain seated for hours.  However, as the servant announced three ladies in succession—­Madame Berthier, Madame de Guiraud, and Madame Levasseur—­she thought she ought to rise.

“Oh! pray stop,” exclaimed Madame Deberle; “I must show you my son.”

The semi-circle round the fireplace was increasing in size.  The ladies were all gossiping at the same time.  One of them declared that she was completely broken down, as for five days she had not gone to bed till four o’clock in the morning.  Another indulged in a diatribe against wet nurses; she could no longer find one who was honest.  Next the conversation fell on dressmakers.  Madame Deberle affirmed no woman tailor could fit you properly; a man was requisite.  Two of the ladies, however, were mumbling something under their breath, and, a silence intervening, two or three words became audible.  Every one then broke into a laugh, while languidly waving their fans.