Louise, obeying the old lady's command, had gone to the rear of the room. The desire to please gave her a really monstrous look and a discouraging attitude. Scarcely had she placed herself in the light, when the lady cried: "Oh! how ugly you are, my little one!" And calling Mme. Paulhat-Durand to witness: "Can there really be creatures on earth as ugly as this little one?" Ever solemn and dignified, Mme. Paulhat-Durand answered: "Undoubtedly she is not a beauty, but Mademoiselle is very honest." "Possibly," replied the lady. "But she is too ugly. Such ugliness is in the last degree disagreeable. What? What did you say?" Louise had not uttered a word. She had simply blushed a little, and lowered her head. Her dull eyes were surrounded with a red streak. I thought she was going to cry. "Well, let us look into this," resumed the lady, whose fingers at this moment, furiously agitated, were tearing the material of her gown, with the movements of a cruel beast. She questioned Louise regarding her family, her previous places, and her capacities for cooking, sewing, and doing housework. Louise answered, "Yes, indeed," or "No, indeed," hoarsely and spasmodically. The examination, fastidious, unkind, criminal, lasted twenty minutes. "Well, my little one," concluded the old lady, "the clearest thing about you is that you do not know how to do anything. I shall have to teach you everything. For four or five months you will be of no use to me. And besides, such ugliness is not prepossessing. That gash in your nose? Have you received a blow?" "No, Madame, it has always been there." "Well, it is not very attractive. What pay do you expect?" "Thirty francs, washing, and wine," declared Louise, resolutely. The old woman started. "Thirty francs! Have you never, then, looked at yourself? It is senseless! What? Nobody wants you; nobody will ever want you. If I take you, it is because I am kind, it is because I really pity you. And you ask me thirty francs! Well, you have audacity, my little one. Undoubtedly your comrades have been giving you bad advice. You do wrong to listen to them." "Surely," said Mme. Paulhat-Durand, approvingly. "When they get together, they get very big ideas." "Well," offered the old lady, in a tone of conciliation, "I will give you fifteen francs. And you will pay for your wine. It is too much. But I do not wish to take advantage of your ugliness and distress." She softened. Her voice became almost caressing.