I watched her as she went. So she was called La Bancale, the bandy-legged, and my eyes were wet with tears as I thought of what her life had been--of what it yet must be. She would do all she could, she had said, and yet what could she accomplish? She was so frail, so weak. Still, for a moment, I felt more hopeful. To a drowning man, even a straw is welcome. Besides, she was not without her shrewdness--witness how she had doubled on her tracks to prevent pursuit, and had finally evaded her pursuer. Or was it really a trap that had been set for me, and into which I had walked blindly? The problem was too great a one for my wit to solve, for my head was paining me again severely. It was no light blow that had been given me, and I wondered that it had not crushed my skull. I could feel that the blood had soaked through my hair and dried about my face, but I had no way of removing it. The air of the cellar seemed foul and close; I was shivering with the cold and damp. At last, in sheer exhaustion, my head fell forward and I slept. A touch on the arm awakened me. I opened my eyes, but could see nothing. “Are you here, Monsieur?” a voice whispered. “Speak to me.” “I was asleep,” I said. “Is it thou, La Bancale?” “Oh, do not call me by that hideous name,” she sobbed. “What shall I call you, then, my dear?” “Anything, anything you like, Monsieur, only not that.” “But have you no other name? Surely, you were not always called that!” “Always, Monsieur,” she sobbed. “Ever since I can remember.” Poor child! And she might have been a girl, happy like any other! “Let me see,” I said, “I will call you Ninon. I have a sister named Ninon. I am sure you would love her.” “I am sure of it also, if she is your sister, Monsieur,” she answered softly. “How does it happen that you are here?” I asked, vaguely troubled by the tone of her voice. “Where is Mère Fouchon?” “She went away just now, and as she said she was going to the Rue des Moulins she cannot be back for an hour at least.” “To the Rue des Moulins?” I cried. “Oh, I must escape!” and I sprang to my feet and tugged at my chain in an ecstasy of rage. “Ninon,” I said suddenly, “could you not step into the street and say two words to a gendarme about my being here?” “Alas, Monsieur,” she answered, “I am as much a prisoner as yourself. Mère Fouchon always locks me in when she leaves the house.” I groaned aloud and could hear her sobbing. “Come,” I said, mastering myself at the end of a moment, “this will not do. We must be brave. Cease crying, Ninon, and sit here beside me.” She did as I bade, and as I passed my arm about her and drew her to me, I felt her body trembling and shaken by sobs. My lips quivered with pity as I perceived how thin she was. “Now,” I said, “we are comfortable. Place your head against my shoulder--so. How old are you, Ninon?” “I do not know, Monsieur.” “Pierre is my name,” I said.