‘Oh! she is sure to forget it. After all, it is not much. The only thing is to prevent its leading to more.’ ‘You had better arrange that with Madame Marmoret, since she is at the bottom of all the mischief.’ When we met at the dinner-table I thought that Ange had already forgotten the little episode we had alluded to. The lovely damask colour bloomed once more on her cheek; her soft eyes beamed with light, and her manner to her father was even more tender and caressing than usual. As soon as the meal was concluded, she perched herself upon his knee, and kept on fondling him to an unusual degree as she stroked down his silver locks, calling him ‘Poor dear papa,’ and ‘Poor darling old father,’ accompanying each phrase of affection with a kiss. I fancied that Mr. Lovett palled of this excess of filial devotion, but the girl could not see it. Her little soft heart was full to the brim with compassion for what she considered the deplorable condition to which he had been brought, and she was powerless to perceive that his did not beat in unison with hers. At last he twitched his venerable head from under her smoothing hands to turn it towards Madame Marmoret, who entered the _salle_ with a message from Jean Marat, the cobbler; a humble message, delivered in the most respectful manner, to the effect that if it were quite convenient to Monsieur le Curé, would monsieur oblige Jean Marat with a few francs—just a few francs—on account of his bill, because madame _sa femme_ had laid-in that morning of the eighth little Marat, and money, under the circumstances, would be very acceptable. To listen to Madame’s oily voice at that moment, who would have dreamt it could ever be so harsh and virulent as we had heard it at other times! She looked the personification of a respectable servant as she stood at the open door with her hands rolled up in her apron; and with all my dislike for the woman, I recognised something touching in the restraint she put on her naturally evil nature for the sake of _petite_ Ange. Mr. Lovett, however, saw nothing ‘touching’ about the matter. His brows contracted as the message was delivered to him, and he put Ange off his lap with a brusqueness that was almost rough. ‘What do you mean by bringing such a message in to me in the midst of dinner?’ he demanded. ‘Tell Jean Marat to go——’ But there he remembered himself and came to a full stop. Whatever he may have been in private, he was always very particular in keeping up the name of his profession in public. ‘Tell Jean Marat that it is _not_ convenient, that I am occupied at present—and he must wait,’ he continued, correcting the former sentence. ‘If monsieur could spare but five francs,’ pleaded Marmoret. ‘The Marats are very poor.’