Suddenly, another, a fifth, carrying on her arm a large basket which made her stoop, came out to take the customers their shirts, their handkerchiefs, and their sheets. She stopped on the threshold as if she were already fatigued; then, she raised her eyes, smiled as she saw us smoking, flung at us, with her left hand, which was free, the sly kiss characteristic of a free-and-easy working-woman, and went away at a slow place, dragging her feet as she went. She was a woman of about twenty, small, rather thin, pale, rather pretty, with a roguish air and laughing eyes beneath her ill-combed fair hair. Pere Piquedent, affected, began murmuring: “What an occupation for a woman! Really a trade only fit for a horse.” And he spoke with emotion about the misery of the people. He had a heart which swelled with lofty democratic sentiment, and he referred to the fatiguing pursuits of the working class with phrases borrowed from Jean-Jacques Rousseau, and with sobs in his throat. Next day, as we were leaning our elbows on the same window sill, the same woman perceived us and cried out to us: “Good-day, scholars!” in a comical sort of tone, while she made a contemptuous gesture with her hands. I flung her a cigarette, which she immediately began to smoke. And the four other ironers rushed out to the door with outstretched hands to get cigarettes also. And each day a friendly intercourse was established between the working-women of the pavement and the idlers of the boarding school. Pere Piquedent was really a comical sight. He trembled at being noticed, for he might lose his position; and he made timid and ridiculous gestures, quite a theatrical display of love signals, to which the women responded with a regular fusillade of kisses. A perfidious idea came into my mind. One day, on entering our room, I said to the old usher in a low tone: “You would not believe it, Monsieur Piquedent, I met the little washerwoman! You know the one I mean, the woman who had the basket, and I spoke to her!” He asked, rather worried at my manner: “What did she say to you?” “She said to me--why, she said she thought you were very nice. The fact of the matter is, I believe, I believe, that she is a little in love with you.” I saw that he was growing pale. “She is laughing at me, of course. These things don't happen at my age,” he replied. I said gravely: “How is that? You are all right.” As I felt that my trick had produced its effect on him, I did not press the matter. But every day I pretended that I had met the little laundress and that I had spoken to her about him, so that in the end he believed me, and sent her ardent and earnest kisses. Now it happened that one morning, on my way to the boarding school, I really came across her. I accosted her without hesitation, as if I had known her for the last ten years. “Good-day, mademoiselle. Are you quite well?” “Very well, monsieur, thank you.” “Will you have a cigarette?” “Oh! not in the street.”