eois_ parents who had worked steadily, lived humbly
and economically, to gather _dots_ for their daughters and open careers
for their sons, to see them thus rise to positions in life far above
their parents. Every day some of these younger branches came to our
house in handsome carriages and toilets; and indeed on some days the
number of elegant visitors who rang at our door gave the impression of a
gay reception _a la mode_ rather than of the ordinary visitors of a
_pension bourgeoise_ at Saint-Maude.

One of our Relicts was decidedly less _bourgeoise_ and more _paysanne_
than any of the rest. She was round as a ball, seventy years of age, and
dressed always in short gray petticoats, black short-gown, and close
white cap. Madame Boulanger kept close watch upon her, and tried to
confine her to the sunny, high-walled garden set with a number of round
little iron tables, where our Relicts took their after-_dejeuner cafe_
on sunny days. But Madame Boulanger was not Argus-eyed, and thus we
often saw Madame Leroy escape through the front door and roll like a
huge balloon along the boulevard, bent on what she called "collecting
her rents." The way she did it was to enter every open door and accost
every grown person she saw with the stern reproach that he was
behind-hand with his rent, and if he did not pay up by to-morrow she
would send the _huissier_ to sell him out. The poor creature was so well
known in the neighborhood that she never received rough treatment, and
was generally so thoroughly tired out by her rent-collecting as to be
quite ready to return without resistance whenever one of our servants
sought her. When she did not escape, and mingled with the conglomerate
widowhood of the garden (she was never permitted in the _salon_, and
went to bed with the chickens), her time was spent, hour after hour, day
after day, month after month, going from Relict to Relict, telling
always the same story,--always the same, and always a true one:

"Are you in trade? I am. My husband and I came to Paris from Normandy
fifty years ago, on foot, with one hundred francs. We kept a
green-grocery on Rue des Saints-Peres. When my husband died he left me
one hundred thousand francs. I go to collect my rents: will you go? Are
you in trade? I am. My husband and I came to Paris on foot," etc., etc.,
etc.

One of the most elegant of all our visitors was to this poor old Madame
Leroy. She always came in an elegant landau, with liveried coach