“I went home all in tears, and my poor aunt encouraged me not to yield, and she would try to place me elsewhere.  Yes—­but it was impossible; the factories were all full.  Misfortunes never come single; my aunt fell ill, and there was not a sou in the house; I plucked up my courage, and returned to entreat the mercy of the clerk at the factory.  Nothing would do. `So much the worse,’ said he; `you are throwing away your luck.  If you had been more complying, I should perhaps have married you.’  What could I do, Mother Arsene?—­misery was staring me in the face; I had no work; my aunt was ill; the clerk said he would marry me—­I did like so many others.”

“And when, afterwards, you spoke to him about marriage?”

“Of course he laughed at me, and in six months left me.  Then I wept all the tears in my body, till none remained—­then I was very ill—­and then—­I console myself, as one may console one’s self for anything.  After some changes, I met with Philemon.  It is upon him that I revenge myself for what others have done to me.  I am his tyrant,” added Rose-Pompon, with a tragic air, as the cloud passed away which had darkened her pretty face during her recital to Mother Arsene.

“It is true,” said the latter thoughtfully.  “They deceive a poor girl—­who is there to protect or defend her?  Oh! the evil we do does not always come from ourselves, and then—­”

“I spy Ninny Moulin!” cried Rose-Pompon, interrupting the greengrocer, and pointing to the other side of the street.  “How early abroad!  What can he want with me?” and Rose wrapped herself still more closely and modestly in her cloak.

It was indeed Jacques Dumoulin, who advanced with his hat stuck on one side, with rubicund nose and sparkling eye, dressed in a loose coat, which displayed the rotundity of his abdomen.  His hands, one of which held a huge cane shouldered like a musket, were plunged into the vast pockets of his outer garment.

Just as he reached the threshold of the door, no doubt with the intention of speaking to the portress, he perceived Rose-Pompon.  “What!” he exclaimed, “my pupil already stirring?  That is fortunate.  I came on purpose to bless her at the rise of morn!”

So saying, Ninny Moulin advanced with open arms towards Rose-Pompon who drew back a step.

“What, ungrateful child!” resumed the writer on divinity.  “Will you refuse me the morning’s paternal kiss?”

“I accept paternal kisses from none but Philemon.  I had a letter from him yesterday, with a jar of preserves, two geese, a bottle of home-made brandy, and an eel.  What ridiculous presents!  I kept the drink, and changed the rest for two darling live pigeons, which I have installed in Philemon’s cabinet, and a very pretty dove-cote it makes me.  For the rest, my husband is coming back with seven hundred francs, which he got from his respectable family, under pretence of learning the bass viol, the cornet-a-piston, and the speaking trumpet, so as to make his way in society, and a slap-up marriage—­to use your expression—­my good child.”