"Mon Dieu! I can't remember now, madame. But someone must have told me. That lady probably learned it by accident." Mignonne made a slight movement of her shoulders, which I could not interpret as flattering to me. To be sure, for the last minute I had been stumbling and splashing about, with no idea of what I was saying. I saw that I had made an egregious blunder by calling her Mignonne. Of course, her Christian name was not generally known; and, as I knew it, she thought, no doubt, that I was a friend of the man who had so shamelessly betrayed her; perhaps she imagined that Fouvenard had sent me to her. That idea drove me to despair. A fine thing I had done, parbleu! How was I to regain her confidence? I took two hundred francs from my pocket and handed them to her, saying: "Here is some money to buy linen with, madame, if you will kindly attend to it. If it is not enough, please let me know----" Mignonne refused to take the money, saying in a severe tone: "It's not worth while for you to give me this money, monsieur; I am not in the habit of buying materials myself. Besides, I cannot, at this moment, undertake the work you offer me. I haven't time to do it; I have other work that is more urgent." I sadly put the money back in my pocket, mumbling: "But I'm not in any hurry for the shirts, madame; you may make them when you choose." "No, monsieur; I don't accept work unless I have time to do it.--Adieu, monsieur!" She had thrown her door wide open, and she stood at one side, apparently inviting me to go. She dismissed me, she was anxious to see the last of me. Clearly, to remain any longer would simply have irritated her more. I rose and bowed low, but I paused in the doorway to say to her: "I venture to hope, madame, that I shall be more fortunate another time, and that you will then consent to work for me." "Yes, monsieur, another time." And she closed her door almost in my face. I was incensed against myself. If I had not called her Mignonne, she would have undertaken the work I offered her. Now she looked upon me with suspicion, with horror perhaps, thinking that I was a friend of Fouvenard, and remembering why he sent his friends to her and how they treated her. I was convinced that she would forbid her concierge to allow me to go up to her room. I had guessed that by her manner when she said: "Yes, monsieur, another time." So I was dismissed, turned out of doors, by that girl whom I had visited with none but the purest and most honorable purposes! To be useful to her, to relieve her distress, to avenge her if possible for the outrages of which she had been the victim--that was my object in going to see her; and although the girl was pretty enough, never, not even since I had been in a position to judge of her beauty, had any ulterior purpose suggested itself to my mind. It seemed to me that Mignonne could be to me nothing more than a friend, a sister; no other thought had come to my mind or my heart.