The old hag leered at Monsieur Rambaud as she thus mumbled away.  He listened to her with the composure of a brave man.  The memories that were being called up before him brought no shadow to his unruffled face.  Only it occurred to him that the pertinacity of the old beggar was annoying Helene, and so he hastened to fumble in his pocket, in his turn giving her some alms, and at the same time waving her away.  The moment her eyes rested on another silver coin Mother Fetu burst into loud thanks.  She would buy some wood at once; she would be able to warm her afflicted body—­that was the only thing now to give her stomach any relief.  Yes, the doctor’s home was quite a nest of turtle-doves, and the proof was that the lady had only last winter given birth to a second child—­a beautiful little daughter, rosy-cheeked and fat, who must now be nearly fourteen months old.  On the day of the baptism the doctor had put a hundred sous into her hand at the door of the church.  Ah! good hearts came together.  Madame had brought her good luck.  Pray God that madame might never have a sorrow, but every good fortune! yes, might that come to pass in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!

Helene stood upright gazing on Paris, while Mother Fetu vanished among the tombs, muttering three Paters and three Aves.  The snow had ceased falling; the last of the flakes had fluttered slowly and wearily on to the roofs; and through the dissolving mist the golden sun could be seen tinging the pearly-grey expanse of heaven with a pink glow.  Over Montmartre a belt of blue fringed the horizon; but it was so faint and delicate that it seemed but a shadow such as white satin might throw.  Paris was gradually detaching itself from amidst the smoke, spreading out more broadly with its snowy expanses the frigid cloak which held it in death-like quiescence.  There were now no longer any fleeting specks of white making the city shudder, and quivering in pale waves over the dull-brown house-fronts.  Amidst the masses of snow that girt them round the dwellings stood out black and gloomy, as though mouldy with centuries of damp.  Entire streets appeared to be in ruins, as if undermined by some gunpowder explosion, with roofs ready to give way and windows already driven in.  But gradually, as the belt of blue broadened in the direction of Montmartre, there came a stream of light, pure and cool as the waters of a spring; and Paris once more shone out as under a glass, which lent even to the outlying districts the distinctness of a Japanese picture.

Wrapped in her fur mantle, with her hands clinging idly to the cuffs of the sleeves, Helene was musing.  With the persistency of an echo one thought unceasingly pursued her—­a child, a fat, rosy daughter, had been born to them.  In her imagination she could picture her at the love-compelling age when Jeanne had commenced to prattle.  Baby girls are such darlings when fourteen months old!  She counted