And at last a faint sound, the light tread of little feet, was heard amidst the silence. Then a weak, childish voice ventured to inquire: "Who is there?" "Monsieur l'Abbe." The silence fell again, nothing more stirred. There was evidently hesitation on the other side. "Monsieur l'Abbe who came the other day," said Pierre again. This evidently put an end to all uncertainty, for the door was set ajar and little Celine admitted the priest. "I beg your pardon, Monsieur l'Abbe," said she, "but Mamma Theodore has gone out, and she told me not to open the door to anyone." Pierre had, for a moment, imagined that Salvat himself was hiding there. But with a glance he took in the whole of the small bare room, where man, woman and child dwelt together. At the same time, Madame Theodore doubtless feared a visit from the police. Had she seen Salvat since the crime? Did she know where he was hiding? Had he come back there to embrace and tranquillise them both? "And your papa, my dear," said Pierre to Celine, "isn't he here either?" "Oh! no, monsieur, he has gone away." "What, gone away?" "Yes, he hasn't been home to sleep, and we don't know where he is." "Perhaps he's working." "Oh, no! he'd send us some money if he was." "Then he's gone on a journey, perhaps?" "I don't know." "He wrote to Mamma Theodore, no doubt?" "I don't know." Pierre asked no further questions. In fact, he felt somewhat ashamed of his attempt to extract information from this child of eleven, whom he thus found alone. It was quite possible that she knew nothing, that Salvat, in a spirit of prudence, had even refrained from sending any tidings of himself. Indeed, there was an expression of truthfulness on the child's fair, gentle and intelligent face, which was grave with the gravity that extreme misery imparts to the young. "I am sorry that Mamma Theodore isn't here," said Pierre, "I wanted to speak to her." "But perhaps you would like to wait for her, Monsieur l'Abbe. She has gone to my Uncle Toussaint's in the Rue Marcadet; and she can't stop much longer, for she's been away more than an hour." Thereupon Celine cleared one of the chairs on which lay a handful of scraps of wood, picked up on some waste ground. The bare and fireless room was assuredly also a breadless one. Pierre could divine the absence of the bread-winner, the disappearance of the man who represents will and strength in the home, and on whom one still relies even when weeks have gone by without work. He goes out and scours the city, and often ends by bringing back the indispensable crust which keeps death at bay. But with his disappearance comes complete abandonment, the wife and child in danger, destitute of all prop and help. Pierre, who had sat down and was looking at that poor, little, blue-eyed girl, to whose lips a smile returned in spite of everything, could not keep from questioning her on another point. "So you don't go to school, my child?" said he.