Her charm was made up of goodness, simplicity and, above all, innocence, that innocence which is unaware of its own existence, which knows nothing of life, which suspects no evil and which does not see the traps laid for it, nor the hypocrisy that surrounds it, nor the envy which it inspires. _La Bonne Demoiselle_ was the name by which the poor called her, thus correcting, by a sort of common instinct, the style which circumstances had compelled her to adopt. And, in all the garrets of Domfront, in all the cabins and cottages of the neighbourhood, people spoke of _la Bonne Demoiselle_ of the Logis, of _la Bonne Demoiselle_ who mourned her husband’s memory and smiled upon the poor. Her gentle smile worked many a miracle in that little world, dispelled many a hatred, stifled many a rebellious impulse, healed many a sore. Men and women consulted her, inexperienced girl that she was, and, what was more, followed her advice. A mother came one day, with her baby in her arms. She told the tragedy of her life, spoke of an elopement, a desertion. Gilberte understood nothing of her story. Yet the mother, in an hour, went away consoled. Young girls came and asked her opinion about getting married; women came and enlarged upon their domestic quarrels; others came and told her things that bewildered her. All these problems, all these cases of conscience Mme. Armand, _la Bonne Demoiselle_, solved with her innocence, the innocence of a child that, knowing nothing, knows more than they who know everything. One evening, Adèle brought her housekeeping-book. Gilberte gravely added the column and initialed it. “But madame is not even looking to see what I bought and how much I paid.” Gilberte blushed: “You see.... I don’t know much about it.... So I leave it to you.... Besides, I have no reason to suspect you....” There must have been something in the tone of her words, something special in her air and attitude; at any rate, the old woman was seized with extraordinary excitement, and, flinging herself on her knees before her mistress, cried: “Oh, it’s a shame to cheat a person like you, ma’am! I can have no heart at all, nor my great rascal of a Bouquetot either!... Why, you must be an angel from Heaven not to see that everybody’s robbing you: the grocer, the baker, the butcher, and I most of all!... Just look at my book: a bunch of carrots, thirty sous; a wretched chicken, six francs fifteen sous....” She emptied her purse on the table: “There! Fifty or sixty francs I’ve done you out of, all in one month!... But I stopped the other day, I couldn’t do it, it broke my heart to see you like that, so trusting....” “My poor Adèle,” whispered Gilberte, greatly moved.