“My wife,” said he, “must return your visit, and she will in person repeat my invitation. It would do your daughter good.” “But I don’t refuse,” she replied, laughing. “I do not require to be fetched with ceremony. Only—only—I am afraid of being indiscreet. At any rate, we will see.” Their talk continued, but at last the doctor exclaimed in a tone of surprise: “Where on earth can Mother Fétu have gone? It must be a quarter of an hour since she went to see after her neighbor’s soup-pot.” Hélène then saw that the door was shut, but it did not shock her at the moment. She continued to talk of Madame Deberle, of whom she spoke highly to her husband; but noticing that the doctor constantly glanced towards the door, she at last began to feel uncomfortable. “It’s very strange that she does not come back!” she remarked in her turn. Their conversation then dropped. Hélène, not knowing what to do, opened the window; and when she turned round they avoided looking at one another. The laughter of children came in through the circular window, which, with its bit of blue sky, seemed like a full round moon. They could not have been more alone—concealed from all inquisitive looks, with merely this bit of heaven gazing in on them. The voices of the children died away in the distance; and a quivering silence fell. No one would dream of finding them in that attic, out of the world. Their confusion grew apace, and in the end Hélène, displeased with herself, gave the doctor a steady glance. “I have a great many visits to pay yet,” he at once exclaimed. “As she doesn’t return, I must leave.” He quitted the room, and Hélène then sat down. Immediately afterwards Mother Fétu returned with many protestations: “Oh! oh! I can scarcely crawl; such a faintness came over me! Has the dear good doctor gone? Well, to be sure, there’s not much comfort here! Oh, you are both angels from heaven, coming to spend your time with one so unfortunate as myself! But God in His goodness will requite you. The pain has gone down into my feet to-day, and I had to sit down on a step. Oh, I should like to have some chairs! If I only had an easy-chair! My mattress is so vile too that I am quite ashamed when you come. The whole place is at your disposal, and I would throw myself into the fire if you required it. Yes. Heaven knows it; I always repeat it in my prayers! Oh, kind Lord, grant their utmost desires to these good friends of mine—in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!” As Hélène listened she experienced a singular feeling of discomfort. Mother Fétu’s bloated face filled her with disgust. Never before in this stifling attic had she been affected in a like way; its sordid misery seemed to stare her in the face; the lack of fresh air, the surrounding wretchedness, quite sickened her. So she made all haste to leave, feeling hurt by the blessings which Mother Fétu poured after her.