At times the pangs of hunger grew too strong for us both, and forced me to spend a little of the money I was nursing so carefully.  As soon as I could make myself understood, I went out occasionally after dark, to buy bread-and-milk.

Noireau was a curious town, the streets everywhere steep and narrow, and the houses, pell-mell, rich and poor, large and small huddled together without order.  Almost opposite the handsome dwelling, the photograph of which had misled me, stood a little house where I could buy rich, creamy milk.  It was sold by a Mademoiselle Rosalie, an old maid, whom I generally found solitarily reading a Journal pour Tous with her feet upon a chaufferette, and no light save that of her little oil-lamp.  She had never sat by a fire in her life, she told me, burning her face and spoiling her teint.  Her dwelling consisted of a single room, with a shed opening out of it, where she kept her milkpans.  She was the only person I spoke to out of Madame Perrier’s own household.

“Is Monsieur Perrier an avocat?” I asked her one day, as soon as I could understand what she might say in reply.  There was very little doubt in my mind as to what her answer would be.

“An avocat, mademoiselle?” She repeated, shrugging her shoulders; “who has told you that?  Are the avocats in England like Emile?  He is my relation, and you see me!  He is a bailiff; do you understand?  If I go in debt, he comes and takes possession of my goods, you see.  It is very simple.  One need not be very learned to do that.  Emile Perrier an avocat?  Bah!”

“What is an avocat?” I inquired.

“An avocat is even higher than a notaire,” she answered; “he gives counsel; he pleads before the judges.  It is a high role.  One must be very learned, very eloquent, to be an avocat.”

“I suppose he must be a gentleman,” I remarked.

“A gentleman, mademoiselle?” she said; “I do not understand you.  There is equality in France.  We are all messieurs and mesdames.  There is monsieur the bailiff, and monsieur the duke; and there is madame the washer-woman, and madame the duchess.  We are all gentlemen, all ladies.  It is not the same in your country.”

“Not at all,” I answered.

“Did my little Emile tell you he was an avocat, mademoiselle?” she asked.

“No,” I said.  I was on my guard, even if I had known French well enough to explain the deception practised upon me.  She looked as if she did not believe me, but smiled and nodded with imperturbable politeness, as I carried off my jug of milk.

So Monsieur Perrier was nothing higher than a bailiff, and with very little to do even in that line of the law!  He took off his tasselled cap to me as I passed his workshop, and went up-stairs with the milk to Minima, who was already gone to bed for the sake of warmth.  The discovery did not affect me with surprise.  If he had been an avocat, my astonishment at French barristers would have been extreme.