"The eyes, Madame, must be clear. With conscious sin, with the first touch of sorrow, the first breath of passion, there comes a mist, and the visions are read no longer." "Well, there are children enough," she answered with a shrug. "I have seen a little girl of about five,—Marie, I think she is called: we will ask for her." Almost as she spoke the door was thrown open and the gaoler entered. He brought another prisoner to share the already crowded room. If Paris streets were silent and empty, her prisons were full enough. This was a pale slip of a girl, with a pitiful hacking cough. She entered listlessly, and sank down in a corner as if she had not strength to stand. "The end of the journey," said Aristide under his breath, but Mme de Labédoyère was by the gaoler’s side talking volubly. "It is only for an hour,—and see—" here something slipped from her hand to his. "It will be a diversion for the child, and for us, mon Dieu, it may save our lives! How would you feel if you were to find us all dead one morning just from sheer ennui?" "I don’t know that I should fret," said the man with a grin, and Mme de Labédoyère bit her lip. "But you will lend us Marie," she said insistently. "Oh, if you like, and if she will come. It is nothing to me, and she is not of an age to have her principles corrupted," said the man, laughing at his own wit. He went out with a jingle of keys, and in a few minutes the door opened once more, and a serious-eyed person of about five years old staggered in, carrying a very fat, heavy baby, whose sleepy head nodded across her shoulder. She hesitated a moment and then came in, closed the door, and finally sat down between Aline and Mlle Ange, disposing the baby upon her diminutive lap. "This is Mutius Scaevola," she volunteered; "my mother washes and I am in charge. He is very sleepy, but one is never sure. He is a wicked baby. Sometimes he roars so that the roof comes off one’s head. Then my mother says it is my fault, and slaps me." "Give him to me," said Mlle Ange suddenly. The serious Marie regarded her for a moment, and then allowed her charge to be transferred to the stranger’s lap, where he promptly fell fast asleep. "Come here, my child," said the old gentleman in the corner, and Marie went to him obediently. He had poured ink into his palm, and now held it under her eyes, putting his other arm gently round the child. "Look now, little one. Look and tell us what you see, and you, Madame," he said, beckoning to Mme de Labédoyère, "come nearer and put your hand upon her head." "Do you see anything, child?" "I see ink," said Marie sedately. "It will make your hand very dirty, sir. Once I got some on my frock, and it never came out. I was beaten for that." "Hush, then, little one, and look into the ink. Presently there will be pictures there. Then you may speak and tell us what you see."