[*] Hélène’s frequent use of her bedroom may seem strange to the English reader who has never been in France. But in the _petite bourgeoisie_ the bedchamber is often the cosiest of the whole suite of rooms, and whilst indoors, when not superintending her servant, it is in the bedroom that madame will spend most of her time. Here, too, she will receive friends of either sex, and, the French being far less prudish than ourselves, nobody considers that there is anything wrong or indelicate in the practice. “Oh, do make haste!” said Jeanne to Monsieur Rambaud, who seemed incapable of finishing a biscuit. “I want to show you my work.” However, he evinced no haste, though when Rosalie began to clear the table it became necessary for him to leave his chair. “Wait a little! wait a little!” he murmured, as the child strove to drag him towards the bedroom, And, overcome with embarrassment and timidity, he retreated from the doorway. Then, as the Abbé raised his voice, such sudden weakness came over him that he had to sit down again at the table. From his pocket he drew a newspaper. “Now,” said he, “I’m going to make you a little coach.” Jeanne at once abandoned her intention of entering the adjoining room. Monsieur Rambaud always amazed her by his skill in turning a sheet of paper into all sorts of playthings. Chickens, boats, bishops’ mitres, carts, and cages, were all evolved under his fingers. That day, however, so tremulous were his hands that he was unable to perfect anything. He lowered his head whenever the faintest sound came from the adjacent room. Nevertheless, Jeanne took interest in watching him, and leaned on the table at his side. “Now,” said she, “you must make a chicken to harness to the carriage.” Meantime, within the bedroom, Abbé Jouve remained standing in the shadow thrown by the lamp-shade upon the floor. Hélène had sat down in her usual place in front of the round table; and, as on Tuesdays she refrained from ceremony with her friends, she had taken up her needlework, and, in the circular glare of light, only her white hands could be seen sewing a child’s cap. “Jeanne gives you no further worry, does she?” asked the Abbé. Hélène shook her head before making a reply. “Doctor Deberle seems quite satisfied,” said she. “But the poor darling is still very nervous. Yesterday I found her in her chair in a fainting fit.” “She needs exercise,” resumed the priest. “You stay indoors far too much; you should follow the example of other folks and go about more than you do.” He ceased speaking, and silence followed. He now, without doubt, had what he had been seeking,—a suitable inlet for his discourse; but the moment for speaking came, and he was still communing with himself. Taking a chair, he sat down at Hélène’s side.