“unkempt girl,” who lived in an hourly struggle, only managing by the greatest courage to hold her own in the department. Such was her life now. She had to smile, look brave and gracious in a silk dress which did not belong to her, although dying with fatigue, badly fed, badly treated, under the continual menace of a brutal dismissal. Her room was her only refuge, the only place where she could abandon herself to the luxury of a cry, when she had suffered too much during the day. But a terrible coldness fell from the zinc roof, covered with the December snow; she was obliged to nestle in her iron bedstead, throw all her clothes over her, and weep under the counterpane to prevent the frost chapping her face. Mouret never spoke to her now. When she caught Bourdoncle's severe looks during business hours she trembled, for she felt in him a born enemy who would not forgive her the slightest fault. And amidst this general hostility, Jouve the inspector's strange friendliness astonished her. If he met her in any out-of-the-way corner he smiled at her, made some amiable remark; twice he had saved her from being reprimanded without any show of gratitude on her part, for she was more troubled than touched by his protection. One evening, after dinner, as the young ladies were setting the cupboards in order, Joseph came and informed Denise that a young man wanted her below. She went down, feeling very anxious. “Hullo!” said Clara, “the 'unkempt girl' has got a young man.” “He must be hard up for a sweetheart,” declared Marguerite. Downstairs, at the door, Denise found her brother Jean. She had formally prohibited him from coming to the shop in this way, as it looked very bad. But she did not dare to scold him, so excited did he appear, bareheaded, out of breath through running from the Faubourg du Temple. “Have you got ten francs?” stammered he. “Give me ten francs, or I'm a lost man.” The young rascal looked so comical, with his flowing locks and handsome girlish face, launching out with this melodramatic phrase, that she could have smiled had it not been for the anguish which this demand for money caused her. “What! ten francs?” she murmured. “Whatever's the matter?” He blushed, and explained that he had met a friend's sister. Denise stopped him, feeling embarrassed, not wishing to know any more about it. Twice already had he rushed in to obtain similar loans, but the first time it was only twenty-five sous, and the next thirty. He was always getting mixed up with women. “I can't give you ten francs,” resumed she. “Pépé's board isn't paid yet, and I've only just the money. I shall have hardly enough to buy a pair of boots, which I want badly. You really are not reasonable, Jean. It's too bad of you.” “Well, I'm lost,” repeated he, with a tragical gesture. “Just listen, little sister; she's a tall, dark girl; we went to the café with her brother. I never thought the drinks----”