ions in the room could not have caused more panic. It was a moment of
pure theatre! The tot screamed, the book fell, the canaries and flies
bestirred themselves, the clock chimed, and the old man sat up,
startled. I was a little flustered myself, and froze at the doorsill,
shouting as loud as I could:

--Hello, folks! I'm Maurice's friend.

Well! You should have seen the poor old soul come with open-arms to hug
me, and shake my hand, and pace wildly round the room, going:

--My God! My God!...

His wrinkled face broke into deep creases of laughter. He flushed and
stuttered:

--Oh, monsieur... Oh, monsieur!...

Then he went to the back of the room and called out for:

--Mamette!

A door opened; a mouse-like scurrying was heard in the passage ... and
there she stood, Mamette, as pretty as a picture in her shell-like
bonnet, her nun-like habit, and her embroidered hanky, which she held
in the respectful, old-fashioned way.... It was so touching; they
looked completely alike. With his hair done up and yellow shells, he
could have been another Mamette, except that the real one must have
cried a lot in her life, as she was even more wrinkled than he. She,
too, had a girl carer from the orphanage, a little nurse, dressed in a
blue cape, who never left her side. To see these old folks, cared for
by the orphans, was unimaginably moving.

Mamette began by addressing me rather too formerly, but the old fellow
cut her off mid-stream:

--He's Maurice's friend....

The effect was immediate; she stood there, trembling, crying, and
blushing even more than he was. That's old people for you! Only a drop
of blood in their veins, but at the least emotion, it leaps to their
faces....

--Quick, get a chair, said the old woman to her little companion.

--Open the blinds, cried the old man to his.

The couple took a hand each, and trotted me over to the window, which
they opened wide to get a better look at me. Once they got back into
their armchairs, I sat down between them on a folding stool, and with
the little blues stationed behind us, the grand interrogation began:

--How is he? What is he doing with himself? Why doesn't he come? Is he
settled in?...

And so on and so forth--for hours on end.

I was answering all their questions as best I could, filling in the
details that I knew, shamelessly inventing those I didn't, without ever
admitting that I hadn't noticed if his windows were well-fitting, or
the colour of hi