“I do not know how old I am, M. Pierre,” and it seemed to me that her voice dwelt lovingly on the word. “And is Mère Fouchon your mother?” “I do not know that, either, M. Pierre. Only----” and she hesitated. “Only what, Ninon? Tell me; do not be afraid.” “Only I hope that she is not my mother, because I hate her.” “She has not been kind to you then, Ninon?” “Kind to me!” and I felt her shudder. “Ah, if you knew, Monsieur! The beatings--the nights and days spent here in this cavern--sometimes I thought she would kill me. If she were my mother, she would not hate me so, would she, Monsieur?” I held her closer to me with aching heart. “No, she would not hate you if she were your mother, Ninon; she would love you. I am sure she is not your mother. Have you always lived here?” “Always, Monsieur. After she became concierge, I remained here, and she came home every night.” “She did not sleep at the Rue du Chantre, then?” “No, never, Monsieur. Always here.” I smiled grimly to myself at this proof that the hag had been lying to me on the night she tripped over my legs in the hallway. “And she has never told you anything about yourself?” I continued after a moment. “Never, Monsieur.” “But you have asked her to tell you, have you not, Ninon?” “Oh, yes, Monsieur, many times.” “And how did she answer?” “With a beating, M. Pierre.” I drew her closer to me and gathered both her hands into my own. “Perhaps it will not be always so,” I said gently. “Perhaps some day there will be people who will love you and who will try to make you happy.” She was sobbing against my shoulder, her hands clutching at me nervously. “You would go with me, Ninon, would you not,” I asked, “if I escaped from here?” “Oh, yes, M. Pierre,” she sobbed. “I would go with you anywhere.” “That is right,” I said, and I bent and kissed her forehead. “But first, I must escape, and in order to escape, I must be rid of this chain. Do you think you could find me a file, Ninon?” “A file? I do not know, Monsieur. I will try. But I must go. She will soon be returning,” and she drew herself away. “If I can find a file, I will bring it to you, M. Pierre,” and a moment later, I heard the door close behind her. CHAPTER XIII A NIGHT OF AGONY I SAT for a long time pondering over the unhappy fate of this child. What her story had been I could only guess. Stolen, doubtless, by this devil in whose care she was--brought up, certainly, in the midst of filth and shame; stunted, tortured, misshapen--until she had become a mere fungus of humanity, growing only in the dark, without blood or healthy vigor--a hideous travesty upon girlhood and womanhood. The horror and sadness of the thing moved me strangely--yet had I not seen a thousand such during those hours I had spent in the slums?