She puffed out her cheeks and pictured how stout her arms would be.  Helene’s answer was that she would see; and then she ran off with a final injunction to Rosalie to take good care of mademoiselle.

The child coiled herself up in the chimney-corner, gazing at the ruddy fire and deep in reverie.  From time to time she moved her hands forward mechanically to warm them.  The glinting of the flames dazzled her large eyes.  So absorbed was she in her dreaming that she did not hear Monsieur Rambaud enter the room.  His visits had now become very frequent; he came, he would say, in the interests of the poor paralytic woman for whom Doctor Deberle had not yet been able to secure admission into the Hospital for Incurables.  Finding Jeanne alone, he took a seat on the other side of the fireplace, and chatted with her as though she were a grown-up person.  It was most regrettable; the poor woman had been waiting a week; however, he would go down presently to see the doctor, who might perhaps give him an answer.  Meanwhile he did not stir.

“Why hasn’t your mother taken you with her?” he asked.

Jeanne shrugged her shoulders with a gesture of weariness.  It disturbed her to go about visiting other people.  Nothing gave her any pleasure now.

“I am getting old,” she added, “and I can’t be always amusing myself.  Mamma finds entertainment out of doors, and I within; so we are not together.”

Silence ensued.  The child shivered, and held her hands out towards the fire which burnt steadily with a pinky glare; and, indeed, muffled as she was in a huge shawl, with a silk handkerchief round her neck and another encircling her head, she did look like some old dame.  Shrouded in all these wraps, it struck one that she was no larger than an ailing bird, panting amidst its ruffled plumage.  Monsieur Rambaud, with hands clasped over his knees, was gazing at the fire.  Then, turning towards Jeanne, he inquired if her mother had gone out the evening before.  She answered with a nod, yes.  And did she go out the evening before that and the previous day?  The answer was always yes, given with a nod of the head; her mother quitted her every day.

At this the child and Monsieur Rambaud gazed at one another for a long time, their faces pale and serious, as though they shared some great sorrow.  They made no reference to it—­a chit like her and an old man could not talk of such a thing together; but they were well aware why they were so sad, and why it was a pleasure to them to sit like this on either side of the fireplace when they were alone in the house.  It was a comfort beyond telling.  They loved to be near one another that their forlornness might pain them less.  A wave of tenderness poured into their hearts; they would fain have embraced and wept together.

“You are cold, my dear old friend, I’m certain of it,” said Jeanne; “come nearer the fire.”

“No, no, my darling; I’m not cold.”