ave been better if Salvat hadn't done what
he did, for we two, the girl and I, are the real ones to suffer from it.
Ah! I can't get the idea into my head, that the little one should be the
daughter of a man condemned to death."

Once more Celine interrupted her, flinging her arms around her neck: "Oh!
mamma, oh! mamma, don't say that, I beg you! It can't be true, it grieves
me too much!"

At this Pierre and Marie exchanged compassionate glances, while
Mere-Grand rose from her chair, in order to go upstairs and search her
wardrobes for some articles of clothing which might be of use to the two
poor creatures. Guillaume, who, for his part, had been moved to tears,
and felt full of revolt against the social system which rendered such
distress possible, slipped some alms into the child's little hand, and
promised Madame Theodore that he would see her landlord so as to get her
back her room.

"Ah! Monsieur Froment!" replied the unfortunate woman. "Salvat was quite
right when he said you were a real good man! And as you employed him here
for a few days you know too that he isn't a wicked one.... Now that
he's been put in prison everybody calls him a brigand, and it breaks my
heart to hear them." Then, turning towards Madame Mathis, who had
continued sewing in discreet silence, like a respectable woman whom none
of these things could concern, she went on: "I know you, madame, but I'm
better acquainted with your son, Monsieur Victor, who has often come to
chat at our place. Oh! you needn't be afraid, I shan't say it, I shall
never compromise anybody; but if Monsieur Victor were free to speak, he'd
be the man to explain Salvat's ideas properly."

Madame Mathis looked at her in stupefaction. Ignorant as she was of her
son's real life and views, she experienced a vague dread at the idea of
any connection between him and Salvat's family. Moreover, she refused to
believe it possible. "Oh! you must be mistaken," she said. "Victor told
me that he now seldom came to Montmartre, as he was always going about in
search of work."

By the anxious quiver of the widow's voice, Madame Theodore understood
that she ought not to have mixed her up in her troubles; and so in all
humility she at once beat a retreat: "I beg your pardon, madame, I didn't
think I should hurt your feelings. Perhaps, too, I'm mistaken, as you
say."

Madame Mathis had again turned to her sewing as to the solitude in which
she lived, that nook of decent misery where