"The person I am looking for is named Landernoy; Mignonne is her Christian name." "Oh! Landernoy--that's a different matter; if you had asked for that name first, you wouldn't have had the trouble of coming back." "You know her, then?" "_Pardi!_ to be sure I do, as she lives in the house. Mamzelle Landernoy--Madame, I mean, for we call her _madame_ now, you see; it's properer, considering her condition. I don't know whether you know what I mean?" "Yes, yes, perfectly; of course, I ought to have said _madame_." "Oh! as to that, we know well enough that the only marriage she ever had was at the mayor's office of the thirteenth arrondissement! But then, what can you expect? she's one more poor girl that's made a misstep; but that's no reason for heaving stones at her. The good Lord said we mustn't heave stones at anybody--especially at poor women who've been weak; eh, monsieur?" The concierge's words led me to forgive her her cats, and I would gladly have shaken hands with her if I had not been afraid of being clawed. "Madame," I said, "your sentiments do you honor." "_Dame!_ I say what I think, that's all. And then, the poor thing seems so unhappy! It ain't that she complains the least bit--oh, no! she's proud enough in her poverty! But, in the first place, she can't be happy, because her seducer's gone back on her altogether; that is, I suppose he has; for nobody ever comes to see her now, not even a cat--except mine; they sometimes go and bid her good-day. And then, when she came here, she had a modest little room on the fifth; and now she's left that and taken another one right up under the eaves, with a little round window and no fireplace. In fact, you can hardly call it a room; it's only a closet at best. But, dame! it only costs seventy francs a year, and the other room was almost twice that; and when you haven't got anything but your work to live on--and a woman earns so little--and on the point of being a mother, too!--Still, it don't make any difference; as I was just saying, she don't complain. She's making clothes for the baby; and when I go in to say good-day to her, she always shows me a little cap or a little shirt, and says: "'Look--this is for him!'--And then she smiles. Poor soul! she never smiles, only when she speaks of her child." "But what does the poor girl live on, in heaven's name?" "Oh! she works, she makes linen garments; she sews mighty well; and then, she's got a pretty taste for trimming caps and headdresses; I'm sure she could have kept her first room, if she'd wanted to; but I suppose that she said to herself that, as she was going to be a mother, she must be saving and put a little something aside against the time when the child comes. And, as I tell you, she's making him a pretty little outfit; I'm sure that there's a dozen little caps already." I was deeply moved by what I had heard. The concierge pointed out the staircase leading to Mignonne's lodging, but, as she did so, she said to me: