"Yes, you will be warmly wrapped in this, dear child! Another little nightgown; that makes six. Ah! you see, I don't want you to lack anything; you will be my companion, my little companion; you will never leave me, and I shan't be alone any more, then; I shall be very happy; I'll kiss you as much as I choose, all day long, for I shall be the one to nurse you! Some people look as if they pitied me because I am going to be a mother! Ah! they don't understand all the joys and hopes that go with that title! Why, if it wasn't for my child, I should be dead! Oh, yes! I should have preferred to die! If it's a girl, I shall call her Marie; that was my mother's name. If it's a boy, I shall call him--I--I don't know yet. Édouard's a nice name, or Léon. But not Ernest, in any case! Ah! what a horrible name!" These last words were uttered in a trembling voice, and I heard nothing more. I knocked gently on the door. "Who's there? Is it you, Madame Potrelle? Wait a minute, and I'll let you in." The door opened. It was, in truth, Mignonne, as Fouvenard had described her to us: a pale, fair-haired girl, with soft, blue eyes; but the lips were no longer red, or the complexion rosy; grief and lonely vigils, during an advanced stage of pregnancy, had seamed and emaciated that youthful face, whose habitual expression now was one of melancholy. Mignonne stood as if struck dumb with amazement at sight of me. I removed my hat and bowed respectfully; I was desirous to inspire her with confidence; but as I did not know what to say, and as she seemed to be waiting for me to speak, we stood for several minutes, looking at each other, without a word. "Monsieur--you have mistaken the room, I think," faltered Mignonne at last, in an uncertain voice. "You did not mean to come to my room; you came up too high." "No, mademoi--no, madame; I think that I have not made a mistake. I am looking for Madame Landernoy; are not you she?" "Yes, monsieur, that is my name. What do you want of me?" Mignonne spoke in a short, sharp tone, which proved that my visit was not agreeable to her. I was still at the door, and she did not ask me to come in. Perhaps she did not wish me to see the wretched place she lived in, and, in truth, what I did see made my heart bleed, for, without entering, the whole room was visible. It was a tiny room, with no light except from a round hole in the sloping roof, the window being opened or closed by an iron bar, as it was so high as to be out of reach. So that she had no sight of anything but a little patch of sky when she raised her eyes to look out. There was no fireplace, but a small air-tight stove. A bed, a commode, a table, a small buffet, a water pail, and six chairs composed the poor girl's furniture. But everything was neatly arranged and spotlessly clean. Evidently, in my inspection of the room, I forgot to answer the question she asked me, for it was repeated in a still more imperative tone: