He began to watch Marguerite again, prowling incessantly around the barber's house, and obtaining all the information he could get as to the character of the old servant; and he promised himself that he would avail himself to the utmost of her credulity and superstition. His plan being carefully considered and arranged, an old messenger, commissioned by him, accosted Marguerite and asked her if she knew of a place for a young peasant, a very pleasant and virtuous girl, who had lately come to Paris and found herself without employment. The kindly old serving woman at once gave two addresses where she said they would perhaps take the young girl, and continued on her way. The next day while going, according to custom, to buy provisions, Marguerite was stopped by a country woman, very modest in demeanor, but with an awkward air, who curtseyed to her and thanked her with lowered eyes. "What are you thanking me for, my child?" said Marguerite, "I do not know you." "Because you interested yourself in me yesterday and tried to find me a place." "Oh, are you the one they recommended to me?" "Yes, mademoiselle." "Did they engage you?" "No, mademoiselle." "I am sorry for it, for you seem to me very pleasing, very honest. Where do you come from?" "From Verberie, mademoiselle." "Why did you come to Paris?" "I have lost both my parents and I thought I should find work more easily in a great city." "Yes, but great cities are dangerous places for virtuous young maids such as you appear to be. They should have told you that, my child." "Yes, they did, mademoiselle! but I am not afraid of anything." "Why, you must believe yourself very wary, very strong, to think you can escape the snares they'll set for you." "Indeed it's not that, mademoiselle, but it is that--I daren't say--it's a mystery, a secret." Secret and mystery had the same effect upon the old maid as love and marriage have upon a young maid--they aroused all her feelings. Marguerite's little eyes beamed and she cried,-- "What, my child! you have a secret? I am not curious, but you interest me; I should like to be useful to you, but it's necessary that I should know everything that concerns you. What is this mystery that you dare not mention?" "Mademoiselle, I did not wish to confide in anyone in Paris, for somebody told me there were pickpockets who would steal my treasure." "You possess a treasure?" "Oh, yes, mademoiselle; but one with which I could still die of hunger." "Why, indeed, what does that matter, my child, hasn't every young girl a treasure without price--her innocence, her virtue--and those who guard it the best are not always the richest. When I see shameless women, who live in luxury and abundance, riding in gilded carriages, it makes me feel ill. But about your secret, my child; would you refuse to confide in me?" "No, indeed, mademoiselle, you appear so respectable, so good, that I cannot refuse you."