"If mademoiselle is not difficult," she said, "she and the little one could rest with me for a day or two. My bed is clean and soft--bah! ten times softer than these paillasses. I would ask only a franc a night for it. That is much less than at the hotels, where they charge for light and attendance. Mademoiselle could write to her friends, if she has not enough money to carry her and the little one back to their own country." "I have no friends," I said, despondently. "No friends! no relations!" she exclaimed. "Not one," I replied. "But that is terrible!" she said. "Has mademoiselle plenty of money?" "Only twelve francs," I answered. Rosalie's face grew long and grave. This was an abyss of misfortune she had not dreamed of. She looked at us both critically, and did not open her lips again for a minute or two. "Is the little one your relation?" she inquired, after this pause. "No," I replied; "I did not know her till I brought her here. She does not know of any friends or relations belonging to her." "There is the convent for her," she said; "the good sisters would take a little girl like her, and make a true Christian of her. She might become a saint some day--" "No, no," I interrupted, hastily; "I could not leave her in a convent." Mademoiselle Rosalie was very much offended; her sallow face flushed a dull red, and the wings of her cap flapped as if she were about to take flight, and leave me in my difficulties. She had kindliness of feeling, but it was not proof against my poverty and my covert slight of her religion. I caught her hand in mine to prevent her going. "Let us come to your house for to-day," I entreated: "to-morrow we will go. I have money enough to pay you." I was only too glad to get a shelter for Minima and myself for another night. She explained to me the French system of borrowing money upon articles left in pledge and offered to accompany me to the _mont de piété_ with those things that we could spare. But, upon packing up our few possessions, I remembered that only a few days before Madame Perrier had borrowed from me my seal-skin mantle, the only valuable thing I had remaining. I had lent it reluctantly, and in spite of myself; and it had never been returned. Minima's wardrobe was still poorer than my own. All the money we could raise was less than two napoleons; and with this we had to make our way to Granville, and thence to Guernsey. We could not travel luxuriously. The next morning we left Noireau on foot. CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH. LOST AT NIGHTFALL.