urse of these morning sessions, of the earliest
happenings of the day. But sometimes these happenings assumed so
mysterious or so alarming an air that my aunt felt she could not wait
until it was time for Francoise to come upstairs, and then a formidable
and quadruple peal would resound through the house.

"But, Mme. Octave, it is not time for your pepsin," Francoise would
begin. "Are you feeling faint?"

"No, thank you, Francoise," my aunt would reply, "that is to say, yes;
for you know well that there is very seldom a time when I don't feel
faint; one day I shall pass away like Mme. Rousseau, before I know where
I am; but that is not why I rang. Would you believe that I have just
seen, as plainly as I see you, Mme. Goupil with a little girl I didn't
know at all. Run and get a pennyworth of salt from Camus. It's not often
that Theodore can't tell you who a person is."

"But that must be M. Pupin's daughter," Francoise would say, preferring
to stick to an immediate explanation, since she had been perhaps twice
already into Camus's shop that morning.

"M. Pupin's daughter! Oh, that's a likely story, my poor Francoise. Do
you think I should not have recognised M. Pupin's daughter!"

"But I don't mean the big one, Mme. Octave; I mean the little girl, he
one who goes to school at Jouy. I seem to have seen her once already his
morning."

"Oh, if that's what it is!" my aunt would say, "she must have come over
for the holidays. Yes, that is it. No need to ask, she will have come
over for the holidays. But then we shall soon see Mme. Sazerat come
along and ring her sister's door-bell, for her luncheon. That will be
it! I saw the boy from Galopin's go by with a tart. You will see that
the tart was for Mme. Goupil."

"Once Mme. Goupil has anyone in the house, Mme. Octave, you won't be
long in seeing all her folk going in to their luncheon there, for it's
not so early as it was," would be the answer, for Francoise, who was
anxious to retire downstairs to look after our own meal, was not sorry
to leave my aunt with the prospect of such a distraction.

"Oh! not before midday!" my aunt would reply in a tone of resignation,
darting an uneasy glance at the clock, but stealthily, so as not to let
it be seen that she, who had renounced all earthly joys, yet found a
keen satisfaction in learning that Mme. Goupil was expecting company to
luncheon, though, alas, she must wait a little more than an hour still
before enjoying the spe