_Ma mere_ leaned over towards her son, and casting down her knitting in her eagerness, one of the dogs ran to pick it up, but she struck the poor thing angrily with Jean's crutch, and it ran yelping back to its corner. And now she whispered long and eagerly in the young man's ear, till his cheek flushed and eyes sparkled, for he was coupling all he heard with the name of Lucy Grey. "Gold and silver--much silver and rich things, Jean," hissed _ma mere_. "But have you seen them?" cried Jean eagerly. "Bah! no; but what then? Why was he out night after night? To catch birds? Bah! no, but to pluck birds of their fine feathers, gay feathers, rich feathers, and he has a store, I know it." "But he may come back," said Jean huskily. "Do I not say the police hunt him? They have been here to seek him," hissed his mother; "and when I have taken his honey I will show his empty nest, and they will send him to the galleys. Yes, yes. But come, fool. There," she said, kissing him, "thy _mere_ loves thee, Jean. No, no, lean on me; you must leave the crutch, it is noisy. No, no, he dare not come back here to be taken." _Ma mere_ placed a piece of candle in her pocket, along with a box of matches. She then led Jean to a chair by the door, left him seated, and went softly back to the window, which she opened, and then gazed down into the court and anxiously at the windows where there were lights. Then once more closing the window, she returned to her son, opened the door, and listened. But there were voices on the stairs, so thrusting Jean back, she leaned over the balusters to try and hear who waited below, but without avail, so she returned to the room. "But we will be rich, Jean--rich," she whispered, "and there shall be no more of this pinching for bread. You shall not have poor workers but ladies glad to see you smile, _mon fils_" and the old woman cast her lean arms round the cripple's neck, kissing him fondly, though he remained thoughtful and impassive, apparently listening to the impatient movements of some sleepless bird.