Around Helene stretched the cemetery, enveloped in its snowy pall, through which rose rusty monuments and iron crosses, like arms thrown up in agony.  There was only one path visible in this lonely corner, and that had been made by the footmarks of Helene and Monsieur Rambaud.  It was a spotless solitude where the dead lay sleeping.  The walks were outlined by the shadowy, phantom-like trees.  Ever and anon some snow fell noiselessly from a branch that had been too heavily burdened.  But nothing else stirred.  At the far end, some little while ago, a black tramping had passed by; some one was being buried beneath this snowy winding-sheet.  And now another funeral train appeared on the left.  Hearses and mourners went their way in silence, like shadows thrown upon a spotless linen cloth.

Helene was awaking from her dream when she observed a beggar-woman crawling along near her.  It was Mother Fetu, the snow deadening the sound of her huge man’s boots, which were burst and bound round with bits of string.  Never had Helene seen her weighed down by such intense misery, or covered with filthier rags, though she was fatter than ever, and wore a stupid look.  In the foulest weather, despite hard frosts or drenching rain, the old woman now followed funerals in order to speculate on the pity of the charitable.  She well knew that amongst the gravestones the fear of death makes people generous; and so she prowled from tomb to tomb, approaching the kneeling mourners at the moment they burst into tears, for she understood that they were then powerless to refuse her.  She had entered with the last funeral train, and a moment previously had espied Helene.  But she had not recognized her benefactress, and with gasps and sobs began to relate how she had two children at home who were dying of hunger.  Helene listened to her, struck dumb by this apparition.  The children were without fire to warm them; the elder was going off in a decline.  But all at once Mother Fetu’s words came to an end.  Her brain was evidently working beneath the myriad wrinkles of her face, and her little eyes began to blink.  Good gracious! it was her benefactress!  Heaven, then, had hearkened to her prayers!  And without seeking to explain the story about the children, she plunged into a whining tale, with a ceaseless rush of words.  Several of her teeth were missing, and she could be understood with difficulty.  The gracious God had sent every affliction on her head, she declared.  The gentleman lodger had gone away, and she had only just been enabled to rise after lying for three months in bed; yes, the old pain still remained, it now gripped her everywhere; a neighbor had told her that a spider must have got in through her mouth while she was asleep.  If she had only had a little fire, she could have warmed her stomach; that was the only thing that could relieve her now.  But nothing could be had for nothing—­not even a match.  Perhaps she was right in thinking that madame had been travelling?  That was her own concern, of course.  At all events, she looked very well, and fresh, and beautiful.  God would requite her for all her kindness.  Then, as Helene began to draw out her purse, Mother Fetu drew breath, leaning against the railing that encircled Jeanne’s grave.