‘I have such trouble when I am alone,’ she said; ‘I have to stretch the threads on this winding machine, or lay them on the table. Gabriel is so selfish, he will not make an attempt to assist me. But then all these contrivances are for him, you know, and he would lose half the pleasure, if he were made to labour at their construction. See! this, now, is the cat’s cabinet. I should so much like to do something, that is, to dye your white dress saffron. You do not know how becoming it would be. I love yellow and black. I wear black, but Gabriel wears yellow. There! we have the basket. They used to dress the victims of the Inquisition in yellow and black, and torture and burn them in these colours. This is the cat’s parlour. And Jews, as an accursed race, were obliged to wear yellow, so I have heard. Among the Buddhists, too, the monks wear saffron habits, in token that they have renounced the world. This, my dear, is the pantry. And the Chinese wear it as their mourning colour--their very deepest mourning. But I like it; it suits my complexion, I think. There! Do you observe this? How your fingers tremble! This is my own invention. Put up your fingers, so. Up, up! There, now. You have the cat’s Bastille, a terrible tower for naughty pusses, when we shut them up. Ah! what have you done with your shaking, quaking fingers? You have pulled down, you have utterly dissolved my Bastille, and all the imprisoned cats will get out!’ At the same moment, Gabriel bounded from his perch. ‘Why, how now!’ exclaimed Madame Berthier; ‘you are crying, my poor girl! Why do you cry? You lack patience. Ah! that is a great and saintly virtue, very hard to acquire. Indeed, you can only acquire it by constant prayer and making cat’s cradles. That is my experience. Yes, it is patience that you want. We poor women have much to bear in this world from the wicked men. If we had not religion and trifling to occupy our thoughts and time, we should go mad. I am sure of it. Sometimes I feel a burning in my head, but first it comes in my chest, a fire there consuming me; then it flames up from my heart into my brain, and sets that on fire, and I should go crazy but for this. I say my rosary and then I make cradles, and then I say my chaplet again, and then go back to my threads. Why are you crying?’ ‘Madame!’ entreated Gabrielle; ‘may I go to my father?’ ‘But, my dear, I think the beast said your father had engaged you to him as my servant and companion.’ ‘Oh, dear madame! you are so kind, pray let me see him and speak to him.’