“Be quiet, you little madcap!” exclaimed Hélène. “I suppose it’s you!” The child slipped on to her mother’s lap, and there, leaning back and swinging to and fro, delighted with the amusement she had devised, she resumed: “Well, it might have been another little girl! Eh? Perhaps some little girl who had brought you a letter of invitation to dine with her mamma. And she might have covered your eyes, too!” “Don’t be silly,” exclaimed Hélène, as she set her on the floor. “What are you talking about? Rosalie, let us have breakfast.” The maid’s eyes, however, were riveted on the child, and she commented upon her little mistress being so oddly dressed. To tell the truth, so great had been Jeanne’s haste that she had not put on her shoes. She had drawn on a short flannel petticoat which allowed a glimpse of her chemise, and had left her morning jacket open, so that you could see her delicate, undeveloped bosom. With her hair streaming behind her, stamping about in her stockings, which were all awry, she looked charming, all in white like some child of fairyland. She cast down her eyes to see herself, and immediately burst into laughter. “Look, mamma, I look nice, don’t I? Won’t you let me be as I am? It is nice!” Repressing a gesture of impatience, Hélène, as was her wont every morning, inquired: “Are you washed?” “Oh, mamma!” pleaded the child, her joy suddenly dashed. “Oh, mamma! it’s raining; it’s too nasty!” “Then, you’ll have no breakfast. Wash her, Rosalie.” She usually took this office upon herself, but that morning she felt altogether out of sorts, and drew nearer to the fire, shivering, although the weather was so balmy. Having spread a napkin and placed two white china bowls on a small round table, Rosalie had brought the latter close to the fireplace. The coffee and milk steamed before the fire in a silver pot, which had been a present from Monsieur Rambaud. At this early hour the disorderly, drowsy room seemed delightfully homelike. “Mamma, mamma!” screamed Jeanne from the depths of the closet, “she’s rubbing me too hard. It’s taking my skin off. Oh dear! how awfully cold!” Hélène, with eyes fixed on the coffee-pot, remained engrossed in thought. She desired to know everything, so she would go. The thought of that mysterious place of assignation in so squalid a nook of Paris was an ever-present pain and vexation. She judged such taste hateful, but in it she identified Malignon’s leaning towards romance. “Mademoiselle,” declared Rosalie, “if you don’t let me finish with you, I shall call madame.” “Stop, stop: you are poking the soap into my eyes,” answered Jeanne, whose voice was hoarse with sobs. “Leave me alone; I’ve had enough of it. The ears can wait till to-morrow.”