With this outburst she dropped two large lumps of sugar into her wine. She was now getting more corpulent than ever, and her little eyes had almost vanished from her fat face. She moved slowly with a beatifical expression of felicity. Her life’s ambition was now evidently satisfied. For this she had been born. When she put her sugar away again Hélène caught a glimpse of some tid-bits secreted at the bottom of a cupboard—a jar of preserves, a bag of biscuits, and even some cigars, all doubtless pilfered from the gentleman lodger. “Well, good-bye, Mother Fétu, I’m going away,” she exclaimed. The old lady, however, pushed the saucepan to one side of the stove and murmured: “Wait a minute; this is far too hot, I’ll drink it by-and-by. No, no; don’t go out that way. I must beg pardon for having received you in the kitchen. Let us go round the rooms.” She caught up the lamp, and turned into a narrow passage. Hélène, with beating heart, followed close behind. The passage, dilapidated and smoky, was reeking with damp. Then a door was thrown open, and she found herself treading a thick carpet. Mother Fétu had already advanced into a room which was plunged in darkness and silence. “Well?” she asked, as she lifted up the lamp; “it’s very nice, isn’t it?” There were two rooms, each of them square, communicating with one another by folding-doors, which had been removed, and replaced by curtains. Both were hung with pink cretonne of a Louis Quinze pattern, picturing chubby-checked cupids disporting themselves amongst garlands of flowers. In the first apartment there was a round table, two lounges, and some easy-chairs; and in the second, which was somewhat smaller, most of the space was occupied by the bed. Mother Fétu drew attention to a crystal lamp with gilt chains, which hung from the ceiling. To her this lamp was the veritable acme of luxury. Then she began explaining things: “You can’t imagine what a funny fellow he is! He lights it up in mid-day, and stays here, smoking a cigar and gazing into vacancy. But it amuses him, it seems. Well, it doesn’t matter; I’ve an idea he must have spent a lot of money in his time.” Hélène went through the rooms in silence. They seemed to her in bad taste. There was too much pink everywhere; the furniture also looked far too new. “He calls himself Monsieur Vincent,” continued the old woman, rambling on. “Of course, it’s all the same to me. As long as he pays, my gentleman—” “Well, good-bye, Mother Fétu,” said Hélène, in whose throat a feeling of suffocation was gathering. She was burning to get away, but on opening a door she found herself threading three small rooms, the bareness and dirt of which were repulsive. The paper hung in tatters from the walls, the ceilings were grimy, and old plaster littered the broken floors. The whole place was pervaded by a smell of long prevalent squalor.