creature whom the storms of life perpetually
assailed. When Abbe Rose had handed her the ten francs discreetly wrapped
in paper, she blushed and thanked him, promising to pay him back as soon
as she received her month's money, for she was not a beggar and did not
wish to encroach on the share of those who starved.

"And your son, Victor, has he found any employment?" asked the old
priest.

She hesitated, ignorant as she was of what her son might be doing, for
now she did not see him for weeks together. And finally, she contented
herself with answering: "He has a good heart, he is very fond of me. It
is a great misfortune that we should have been ruined before he could
enter the Ecole Normale. It was impossible for him to prepare for the
examination. But at the Lycee he was such a diligent and intelligent
pupil!"

"You lost your husband when your son was ten years old, did you not?"
said Abbe Rose.

At this she blushed again, thinking that her husband's story was known to
the two priests. "Yes, my poor husband never had any luck," she said.
"His difficulties embittered and excited his mind, and he died in prison.
He was sent there through a disturbance at a public meeting, when he had
the misfortune to wound a police officer. He had also fought at the time
of the Commune. And yet he was a very gentle man and extremely fond of
me."

Tears had risen to her eyes; and Abbe Rose, much touched, dismissed her:
"Well, let us hope that your son will give you satisfaction, and be able
to repay you for all you have done for him."

With a gesture of infinite sorrow, Madame Mathis discreetly withdrew. She
was quite ignorant of her son's doings, but fate had pursued her so
relentlessly that she ever trembled.

"I don't think that the poor woman has much to expect from her son," said
Pierre, when she had gone. "I only saw him once, but the gleam in his
eyes was as harsh and trenchant as that of a knife."

"Do you think so?" the old priest exclaimed, with his kindly _naivete_.
"Well, he seemed to me very polite, perhaps a trifle eager to enjoy life;
but then, all the young folks are impatient nowadays. Come, let us sit
down to table, for the soup will be cold."

Almost at the same hour, on the other side of Paris, night had in like
fashion slowly fallen in the drawing-room of the Countess de Quinsac, on
the dismal, silent ground-floor of an old mansion in the Rue St.
Dominique. The Countess was there, alone with her faithful