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So soon as Madame Lacaze could find her voice, she asked her smiling husband what money she was to have to maintain herself and the apartment.

His reply was definite.

“The apartment is given up and the furniture sold. I have done that to-day. You will lodge with the Marats and go out to work. I have been wondering what you could do, my sweet, but you have shown me. If you sew hard, you will make quite a lot of money.”

Madeleine walked to the window and picked up the remains of her chemise. The garment tugged at her thoughts. She let them go....

In an instant she was at Ruffec, stepping the cool, quiet streets. There was old Monsieur Laffargue, the doctor, getting down from his gig. Now he was smiling broadly and rallying her about her cheeks. ‘You must do something,’ he said. She could hear his jolly old voice. ‘Something. I don’t know what. No one will ever believe there’s no paint there.’ She passed on smiling.... A voice called from a window. Madame Durand, of course, the postman’s wife. ‘Madeleine, Madeleine, my sister has had a son. A great fat rogue, they say, four kilos at birth. Is it not wonderful?’ Madeleine rejoiced with her, and went her way. Then Père Fréchou stopped her, to give her five great peaches—two for each of her eyes and one for her pretty red lips ... She came to the Rue de l’Image, all decked with the evening sun. The awnings of the little shops made it absurdly narrow, like a toy street. And there, striding into the sunlight, came René Dudoy. His healthy young face lighted up. ‘I was on my way, Madeleine, to tell you how lucky I am. The patron has been given the order for three mantelpieces in stone at the Château St. Pol, and I am to do the work and to put them in.’ ‘Oh, René, I am so glad—so awfully glad. Go on and tell Jean and Jacques. Or stay—go home and get Marie and bring her to supper with us. See what Père Fréchou has given me. Did ever you see such beauties? We’ll eat them to-night in your honour. There’s plenty of cream.’ René’s face was a picture. Madeleine passed on thoughtfully.... At the draper’s she laid out her money—some thirty-two francs—not without much hesitation and plucking at stuffs. Madame Bidart was kindness itself, and made her a price. Indeed, the old lady refused to sell her the linen she chose. It was not good enough, she declared. Now this was superb—fit for a king’s daughter. ‘But I am not a king’s daughter,’ protested Madeleine, laughing. ‘You are an angel from heaven,’ said Madame Bidart. ‘I tell you——’