re, I'll
have something to say to you!"

She left the room and slammed the door behind her. Jeanne had
staggered back to the window, her sobs suddenly arrested by this
brutal treatment, her limbs stiffened, her face quite white. She
stretched her hands towards the door, and twice wailed out the words:
"Mamma! mamma!" And then she remained where she had fallen on a chair,
with eyes staring and features distorted by the jealous thought that
her mother was deceiving her.

On reaching the street, Helene hastened her steps. The rain had
ceased, but great drops fell from the housetops on to her shoulders.
She had resolved that she would reflect outside and fix on some plan.
But now she was only inflamed with a desire to reach the house. When
she reached the Passage des Eaux, she hesitated for just one moment.
The descent had become a torrent; the water of the gutters of the Rue
Raynouard was rushing down it. And as the stream bounded over the
steps, between the close-set walls, it broke here and there into foam,
whilst the edges of the stones, washed clear by the downpour, shone
out like glass. A gleam of pale light, falling from the grey sky, made
the Passage look whiter between the dusky branches of the trees.
Helene went down it, scarcely raising her skirts. The water came up to
her ankles. She almost lost her flimsy slippers in the puddles; around
her, down the whole way, she heard a gurgling sound, like the
murmuring of brooklets coursing through the grass in the depths of the
woods.

All at once she found herself on the stairs in front of the door. She
stood there, panting in a state of torture. Then her memory came back,
and she decided to knock at the kitchen.

"What! is it you?" exclaimed Mother Fetu.

There was none of the old whimper in her voice. Her little eyes were
sparkling, and a complacent grin had spread over the myriad wrinkles
of her face. All the old deference vanished, and she patted Helene's
hands as she listened to her broken words. The young woman gave her
twenty francs.

"May God requite you!" prayed Mother Fetu in her wonted style.
"Whatever you please, my dear!"

CHAPTER XIX.

Leaning back in an easy-chair, with his legs stretched out before the
huge, blazing fire, Malignon sat waiting. He had considered it a good
idea to draw the window-curtains and light the wax candles. The outer
room, in which he had seated himself, was brilliantly illuminated by a
sm