“Ah yes, Sophie, buy a piano; that will enliven you a little—may I call you Sophie?—for what else should I call you? It always seems as if I saw you as you looked when you were a child. I see now the house at Tonniens—the two steps you had to ascend on entering, then the little green gate, opening upon a lawn; then the garden to the right; upon the ground-floor was the kitchen, the dining-room and the parlor; on the first floor, the chamber of your mother, Madame Ristaud, that of your father, and yours, which was also mine. O, yes, I see it all! and your little bed with the figured coverlet! And the day you were born, it seems to me as yesterday! It was the fifteenth of August, 1773—that was twenty years ago. And then the day of your wedding at Bordeaux, (we lived then at Bordeaux;) didn’t your marriage make a noise?—you recollect it?—the little Ristaud, who married a rich banker of the capital, Monsieur Cottin. ‘Well, what is there astonishing about that?’ said I, ‘the little Ristaud is worth a banker of the capital two or three times over!’ I had only one fear, which I kept to myself, and that was, that when you should once be married and in Paris, you would not want your old nurse any longer. ‘Leave my nurse!’ you said, when you saw me weeping, and found why, ‘leave my nurse! no, no, I couldn’t do without her; I should feel lost if I should lose her.’ And you were right, my dear little one; your mother died, and your father, and then, in three years and six months after your wedding, your husband died; and now your fortune is gone, no one knows where, and not one is left but your nurse, your old nurse, who would give her blood, her life, every thing, that she might see you more happy. Yes, if you had a piano here, you could sing; you have such a sweet voice, and that would do well for us both. If by selling my cross of gold we might have one—what do you say?” “It would need twelve hundred francs to purchase a piano, and the cross would not procure them; _these_” she added, striking her hand upon the papers scattered upon the table, “these would give them to me if I had the courage to go and sell them; but I dare not, I would only get a refusal.” “Do you wish me to go, Sophie?” replied the nurse, “only tell me where, and it shall be done quickly—there!—what was that? This chamber is very gloomy, and that curtain is always moving!” “I will go myself to-morrow,” said Madam Cottin, looking at her watch. “It is eleven o’clock—I must work a little longer; leave me, Marianne, and go to your rest.” “Ah! now you are quite sure it was you who closed the shutters and drew down the curtains?” asked Marianne, reluctantly complying with her mistress’s command—“you are not afraid?”