The table, sideboard, and eight chairs furnishing the dining-room were of mahogany.  The curtains of red reps had been drawn close by Rosalie, and a hanging lamp of white porcelain within a plain brass ring lighted up the tablecloth, the carefully-arranged plates, and the tureen of steaming soup.  Each Tuesday’s dinner brought round the same remarks, but on this particular day Dr. Deberle served naturally as a subject of conversation.  Abbe Jouve lauded him to the skies, though he knew that he was no church-goer.  He spoke of him, however, as a man of upright character, charitable to a fault, a good father, and a good husband—­in fact, one who gave the best of examples to others.  As for Madame Deberle she was most estimable, in spite of her somewhat flighty ways, which were doubtless due to her Parisian education.  In a word, he dubbed the couple charming.  Helene seemed happy to hear this; it confirmed her own opinions; and the Abbe’s remarks determined her to continue the acquaintance, which had at first rather frightened her.

“You shut yourself up too much!” declared the priest.

“No doubt,” echoed his brother.

Helene beamed on them with her quiet smile, as though to say that they themselves sufficed for all her wants, and that she dreaded new acquaintances.  However, ten o’clock struck at last, and the Abbe and his brother took up their hats.  Jeanne had just fallen asleep in an easy-chair in the bedroom, and they bent over her, raising their heads with satisfied looks as they observed how tranquilly she slumbered.  They stole from the room on tiptoe, and in the lobby whispered their good-byes: 

“Till next Tuesday!”

“O, by the way,” said the Abbe, returning a step or two, “I was forgetting:  Mother Fetu is ill.  You should go to see her.”

“I will go to-morrow,” answered Helene.

The Abbe had a habit of commissioning her to visit his poor.  They engaged in all sorts of whispered talk together on this subject, private business which a word or two enabled them to settle together, and which they never referred to in the presence of other persons.

On the morrow Helene went out alone.  She decided to leave Jeanne in the house, as the child had been troubled with fits of shivering since paying a visit of charity to an old man who had become paralyzed.  Once out of doors, she followed the Rue Vineuse, turned down the Rue Raynouard, and soon found herself in the Passage des Eaux, a strange, steep lane, like a staircase, pent between garden walls, and conducting from the heights of Passy to the quay.  At the bottom of this descent was a dilapidated house, where Mother Fetu lived in an attic lighted by a round window, and furnished with a wretched bed, a rickety table, and a seatless chair.

“Oh! my good lady, my good lady!” she moaned out, directly she saw Helene enter.

The old woman was in bed.  In spite of her wretchedness, her body was plump, swollen out, as it were, while her face was puffy, and her hands seemed numbed as she drew the tattered sheet over her.  She had small, keen eyes and a whimpering voice, and displayed a noisy humility in a rush of words.