Twelve o'clock.—A knock at my door; a poor
girl comes in and greets me by name. At first I
do not recall her, but she looks at me and smiles. Ah, it is
Paulette! But it is nearly a year since I have seen her,
and Paulette is no longer the same; the other day she was 5
a child; to-day she is almost a young woman.

Paulette is thin, pale, and miserably clad; but she has
always the same open and straightforward look—the same
mouth, smiling at every word as if to plead for sympathy—the
same voice, timid yet caressing. Paulette is not 10
pretty—she is even thought plain; as for me, I think her
charming. Perhaps that is not on her account but on my
own. Paulette is a part of one of my happiest recollections.

It was the evening of a public holiday. Our principal
buildings were lighted with festoons of fire, a thousand
flags floated in the night wind, and the fireworks had just
shot forth their jets of flame in the midst of the Champ de
Mars. Suddenly one of those unaccountable panics which5
seize a multitude falls upon the dense crowd; they cry out,
they rush on headlong; the weaker ones fall and the
frightened crowd tramples them down in its convulsive
struggles. Escaping from the confusion by a miracle, I
was hastening away when the cries of a perishing child 10
arrested me; I went back into that human chaos and
after unheard-of exertions I brought Paulette away at the
peril of my life.

That was two years ago; since then I had seen the child
only at long intervals and had almost forgotten her; but 15
Paulette had a grateful heart, and she came at the beginning
of the year to bring me her good wishes. She brought
me, too, a wallflower in full bloom; she herself had planted
and reared it; it was something that belonged wholly to
herself, for it was because of her care, her perseverance, 20
and her patience that it was hers.

The wallflower had grown in a common pot; but Paulette,
who is a bandbox maker, had put it into a case of
varnished paper ornamented with arabesques. These
might have been in better taste, but I felt the good will25
none the less.

This unexpected present, the little girl's modest blushes,
the compliments she stammered out, dispelled, as by a
sunbeam, the mist which had gathered round my heart;
my thoughts suddenly changed from the leaden tints of 30
evening to the rosiest colors of dawn. I made Paulette
sit down and questioned her with a light heart.

At first the little girl replied by monosyllables; but
very soon the tables were turned and it was I who interrupted
with short interjections her long confidences. The
poor child leads a hard life. She was left an orphan long
ago and with a brother and sister lives with an old grandmother, 5
who has brought them up to poverty, as she says.

However Paulette now helps her to make bandboxes, her
little sister Perrine begins to sew, and her brother Henri
is apprenticed to a printer. All would go well if it were not
for losses and want of work—if it were not for clothes which 10
wear out, for appetites which grow larger, and for the
winter, when you must buy your sunshine. Paulette complains
that candles go too quickly and that the wood costs
too much. The fireplace in their garret is so large that a
fagot produces no more effect than a match; it is so near15
the roof that the wind blows down the rain and in winter
it hails upon the hearth; so they have given up using it.
Henceforth they must be content with an earthen chafing
dish, upon which they cook their meals. The grandmother
had often spoken of a stove that was for sale at the huckster's 20
on the ground floor, but he asked seven francs for it
and the times are too hard for such an expense; the family,
therefore, resign themselves to cold for economy's sake!

As Paulette spoke I felt more and more that I was rising
above my low spirits. The first disclosures of the little25
bandbox maker created within me a wish that soon became
a plan. I questioned her about her daily occupations and
she told me that on leaving me she must go with her brother,
her sister, and her grandmother, to the different people for
whom they work. My plan was immediately settled. I 30
told the child that I would go to see her in the evening,
and I sent her away, thanking her anew.

I placed the wallflower in the open window, where a ray
of sunshine bade it welcome; the birds were singing around,
the sky had cleared, and the day which began so gloomily
had become bright. I sang as I moved about my room,
and having hastily got ready I went out. 5

Three o'clock.—All is settled with my neighbor, the
chimney doctor; he will repair my old stove, the old stove
which I had replaced, and promises to make it as good as
new. At five o'clock we are going to put it up in Paulette's
grandmother's room. 10

Midnight.—All has gone well. At the hour agreed
upon I was at the old bandbox maker's; she was still out.
My Piedmontese fixed the stove, while I arranged in the
great fireplace a dozen logs borrowed from my winter's
stock. I shall make up for them by warming myself with 15
walking or by going to bed earlier.

My heart beat at every step which was heard on the
staircase; I trembled lest they should interrupt me in my
preparations and should thus spoil my intended surprise.
But no—everything is ready; the lighted stove murmurs 20
gently, the little lamp burns upon the table, and a bottle
of oil for it is provided on the shelf. The chimney doctor
is gone. Now my fear lest they should come is changed
into impatience at their delay. At last I hear children's
voices; here they are! They push open the door and 25
rush in—but they stop with cries of astonishment.

At sight of the lamp, the stove, and the visitor who
stands there like a magician in the midst of these wonders,
they draw back almost frightened. Paulette is the first to
understand, and the arrival of the grandmother, mounting 30
the stairs more slowly, finishes the explanation. Then come
tears, ecstasies, thanks!

Surprises are not over yet. The little sister opens the
oven and discovers some chestnuts just roasted; the
grandmother puts her hand on the bottles of cider arranged
on the dresser; and I draw forth from the basket that I
have hidden, a cold tongue, a wedge-shaped piece of butter, 5
and some fresh rolls.

Now their wonder turns into admiration; the little family
have never taken part in such a feast! They lay the cloth,
they sit down, they eat; it is a perfect festival for all, and
each contributes his share. I had brought only the supper; 10
the bandbox maker and the children supplied the enjoyment.

What bursts of laughter at nothing! What a hubbub of
questions which waited for no reply, of replies which answered
no question! The old woman herself shared in the
wild merriment of the little ones! I have always wondered15
at the ease with which the poor forget their wretchedness.
Accustomed to live in the present, they use every pleasure
as soon as it offers itself. But the rich, blunted by luxury,
gain happiness less easily. They must have all things in
harmony before they consent to be happy. 20

The evening passed like a moment. The old woman has
told me the story of her life, sometimes smiling, sometimes
crying. Perrine has sung an old ballad with her
fresh young voice. Henri has told us what he knows of
the great writers of the day, whose proofs he has to carry. 25
At last we were obliged to separate, not without new
thanks on the part of the happy family.

I have come home slowly, with a full heart, thinking
over the pure memories of this evening. It has given me
comfort and much instruction. Now the years can come 30
and go. I know that no one is so unhappy as to have
nothing to receive and nothing to give.

As I came in I met my rich neighbor's new equipage.
She too had just returned from her evening party; and as
she sprang from the carriage step with feverish impatience,
I heard her murmur, "At last!"

I, when I left Paulette's family, said, "So soon!" 5