he whirling snow,
unable to distinguish anything to guide her. Below stretched the
ground, vaguely white; grey walls surrounded her, and when she paused,
hesitating and turning her head, she divined that behind this icy veil
extended the immense avenue with interminable vistas of gas-lamps--the
black and deserted Infinite of Paris asleep.

She was standing where the outer Boulevard meets the Boulevards Magenta
and Ornano, thinking of lying down on the ground, when suddenly she
heard a footfall. She began to run, but the snow blinded her, and the
footsteps went off without her being able to tell whether it was to
the right or to the left. At last, however, she perceived a man's broad
shoulders, a dark form which was disappearing amid the snow. Oh! she
wouldn't let this man get away. And she ran on all the faster, reached
him, and caught him by the blouse: "Sir, sir, just listen."

The man turned round. It was Goujet.

So now she had accosted Golden-Beard. But what had she done on earth
to be tortured like this by Providence? It was the crowning blow--to
stumble against Goujet, and be seen by her blacksmith friend, pale
and begging, like a common street walker. And it happened just under a
gas-lamp; she could see her deformed shadow swaying on the snow like a
real caricature. You would have said she was drunk. _Mon Dieu!_ not to
have a crust of bread, or a drop of wine in her body, and to be taken
for a drunken women! It was her own fault, why did she booze? Goujet no
doubt thought she had been drinking, and that she was up to some nasty
pranks.

He looked at her while the snow scattered daisies over his beautiful
yellow beard. Then as she lowered her head and stepped back he detained
her.

"Come," said he.

And he walked on first. She followed him. They both crossed the silent
district, gliding noiselessly along the walls. Poor Madame Goujet had
died of rheumatism in the month of October. Goujet still resided in the
little house in the Rue Neuve, living gloomily alone. On this occasion
he was belated because he had sat up nursing a wounded comrade. When he
had opened the door and lighted a lamp, he turned towards Gervaise, who
had remained humbly on the threshold. Then, in a low voice, as if he
were afraid his mother could still hear him, he exclaimed, "Come in."

The first room, Madame Goujet's, was piously preserved in the state she
had left it. On a chair near the window lay the tambour by the side of
the lar