In the meantime, Mariette was hurrying homeward, somewhat uneasy at the thought of her long absence. Having reached that sad, gloomy street known as the Rue des PrÊtres-Saint-Germain, she walked rapidly along until she came to the last dingy house facing the dark walls of the church, where she entered. Crossing an obscure passage, the girl ascended a rickety stairway, only dimly lighted from a small court-yard that resembled nothing more than a narrow well, and stopped at the door of the portiÈre.

"Madame Justin," she said to the woman, who stood on the threshold, "have you been up to see if my godmother wanted anything?"

"I carried up her milk, Mademoiselle Mariette," replied the woman, "but she was in such a temper that she received me like a dog."

"We must take pity on her, Madame Justin; she suffers so much."

"Of course you always excuse her and suffer everything in silence, Mademoiselle Mariette. It shows your kind heart, but it does not alter the fact that your godmother is as wicked as a red mule. Poor child! you are doing your purgatory on earth; and if there is no Heaven, you will be well cheated."

"Good-bye, Madame Justin, I must go up now."

"Wait a moment, I have a letter for you."

"A letter!" cried Mariette, her cheeks flushing and her heart throbbing violently. "Is it from the provinces?"

"Yes; the postmark is from Dreux, and it costs her six sous. Here it is. The word 'Urgent' is written in one corner of the envelope."

The girl thrust the missive in her bosom; then drawing her purse, she took out her last ten-sou piece and paid the woman. Taking her key, she then ran up the last stairs, her heart beating wildly with a sensation of mingled happiness and sadness. Though she was happy in the possession of the letter, the word "Urgent" on the corner of the envelope filled her with misgivings; besides, what sadness filled her heart at the thought that perhaps several hours must elapse before she could learn what Louis Richard had written.

Having finally reached the fifth floor of the dilapidated house, so gloomy and ill-smelling, with its atmosphere poisoned by stagnant water in the defective sinks and sewers, she hesitatingly entered the dingy room occupied by her godmother and herself.

A woman was lying with her face to the wall, on the only bed that the room boasted; while the thin mattress that served Mariette as a couch was rolled in a corner, as much out of the way as possible. A work table, an old dresser, two chairs, and a few kitchen utensils hanging around the chimney, composed the sole furniture of this humble home, lighted only by a narrow window overlooking the gloomy yard, but the most rigorous neatness was remarkable everywhere.

The girl's godmother, Madame Lacombe, was a tall, gaunt woman of fifty years, with a cadaverous complexion and harsh, disagreeable features. A bitter, sardonic smile, caused by a lifetime of misery and suffering, habitually contracted her livid lips, her form being almost bent double; her mutilated arm and bilious face, enframed in a ragged cap, through which hung long wisps of gray hair, were alone visible outside the coverings.

"Where have you been?" she cried, in a rasping voice, making an effort to tarn in her bed as the girl entered.

"Dear godmother, I—" began Mariette.

"Oh, yes; you go running about the streets, leaving me here alone to fret and fume!" interrupted the woman furiously.

"But I was scarcely gone an hour," protested the girl.

"And you hoped to find me dead on your return, eh?"

"Heavens! how can you think such a thing!" sobbed Mariette.

"Oh! yes; you may whine now. But I am not your dupe! You have had enough of me; and the day when I am screwed down in my coffin will be a day of rejoicing for you—and so will it be for me, too—Oh! my God! this is too much agony," she groaned, pressing her thin hand to her breast.

Mariette wiped away the tears drawn by this harsh sarcasm, and approaching the bed, said sweetly: "You had such a bad night that I thought you might sleep a little in my absence."

"Oh! yes—you leave me here alone, to die like a dog, while you run about the streets."

"I was obliged to go out; but Madame Justin promised—"

"I had rather see death itself than that creature," interrupted the sick woman angrily, "and you take every opportunity to send her to me."

A bitter smile flitted over the girl's lips; but she passed this new sarcasm unnoticed and said gently: "Shall I put fresh bandages on your arm?"

"It's too late now; you stayed away purposely."

"I am sorry I was delayed; but allow me to do it now."

"Leave me alone."

"But the wound will be inflamed."

"That's exactly what you are aiming at."

"Godmother, I beg you!"

"Don't come near me!" shrieked the sick woman furiously.

"I shall wait then," sighed the girl. "Shall I warm up your milk?"

"Milk! milk! and nothing but milk!—I am just sick of it. The doctor prescribed good chicken broth; and here it is Sunday, and I have had none since Tuesday."

"It's no fault of mine, godmother. The doctor prescribes—but money must be found to provide what he orders. And I can scarcely make twenty sous a day now."

"You don't mind what you spend on yourself," snapped Mme. Lacombe.

"You know well that I have worn nothing but this faded print dress all winter," rejoined Mariette, with touching resignation. "I economize as much as I can—and we owe two quarters of rent."

"You might as well say right now that I am a burden to you. These are the thanks I get for taking you out of the streets and paying for your apprenticeship!—you ungrateful, heartless child!"

"No, no, I am not ungrateful, godmother!" protested Mariette, restraining her tears with difficulty. "And, if you suffered less, you would not be so unjust to me—but do take something, or else you will be ill."

"I know it, I feel a terrible gnawing at my stomach."

"Please have some milk, godmother," entreated the girl.

"Go to the devil with your milk!" she snapped angrily.

"Shall I get you some fresh eggs?"

"No!"

"Will you have some rice?"

"I want some chicken!"

"But I can't get one on credit."

"You had twenty-seven sous in your purse this morning, and the quarter of a chicken will do me."

"But, godmother, that money—"

"Well, what about that money?"

"It's gone; I have only a few sous left."

"And where are those two ten-sous pieces?—Will you answer me?"

"I—I don't know," faltered the girl, reproaching herself bitterly for spending her money on the letters. "They must have dropped from my purse; for I have lost them."

"You lie!—I see it in your face."

"I assure you—"

"That's it," rejoined the sick woman, with a sardonic laugh, "she leaves me to rot on this wretched pallet, while she feasts on cakes and sweetmeats!"

"I?—Oh, my God!" moaned the girl.

"Out of here, you wretched creature! You may leave me to starve; but don't let me see your face again!" cried the unhappy woman, driven to desperation by the tortures she endured and the exasperating animosity of fate against her. "Ah! yes, you are very anxious to make me swallow that milk," she added, with a still more ironical laugh; "I am such a burden that you may have dropped something in it!"

At this accusation—still more senseless than atrocious—Mariette remained for a moment dumbfounded, not realizing the full meaning of the horrible words. But when their full sense burst upon her, she clasped her two hands together and shrank back in terror; then, unable to restrain her sobs any longer, and yielding to an irresistible impulse, she threw her arms about the sick woman's neck and, covering her face with tears and kisses, murmured brokenly: "Oh! godmother! godmother!"

This heart-broken protestation against an accusation which could have had its birth in a delirious brain only, fortunately recalled the sick woman to reason. Her heart relaxed a little under this flow of tears, and she realized her injustice.

"There, there, little one," she said with emotion, as she took one of the girl's trembling hands in hers and pressed the quivering form against her breast, "don't cry so—how foolish you are!—don't you see I was only jesting?"

Jesting! A sad jest, alas! worthy only of such abject misery.

"Yes; I was wrong to take your words seriously," returned Mariette, wiping away the tears from her pale cheeks.

"What will you? you must take pity on your poor godmother, my little Mariette. By dint of suffering, you see, my gall has overflowed, and my heart is like my mouth—bitter, Oh, so bitter!"

"I know that you grumble in spite of yourself sometimes, godmother—Ah, it is so easy to be always cheerful and contented when one is happy; while you have found little happiness in your life."

"True enough," said the old woman, feeling a sort of cruel satisfaction in justifying her embittered character by the enumeration of her wrongs against an implacable destiny; "true enough, many have fared as badly as myself, but few have fared worse. Beaten in my apprenticeship, beaten by a drunken husband, crippled and ill, I have dragged my chains for fifty years, and none can say that I have had one happy day—one single happy day in my accursed life. As we say, my little Mariette, my life has been without a single Sunday, while each day is a holiday to so many."

"Poor godmother, I can understand what you have suffered," murmured the girl, sympathetically.

"No, no, you can never understand, although you have known much sorrow in your eighteen years. You are pretty, at least, and when you have a new frock, with a fresh bit of ribbon in your golden hair, you can smile at your reflection in the mirror and feel a moment of happiness."

"Oh, godmother! I—"

"Be frank, little one; admit that it makes you happy, and perhaps a little proud, too, when people turn their heads to look at you, in spite of your faded gown and coarse shoes."

"Indeed you are mistaken, godmother; it makes me blush to have any one look at me. When I worked at the shop, there was a gentleman who came every day and always gazed persistently at me while talking to Madame Jourdan, and it mortified me to death."

"Yes, but at heart you were pleased; and when you are old you will remember it. You will then have something like a reflection of your youth; while I see nothing but gloom, and don't even know if I was ever young. But as for being ugly, I am sure of that."

"Oh! godmother!"

"Yes, I was so ugly that I could not bear the sight of a mirror. The consequence was that I found nothing better than a drunken husband, who nearly killed me with blows; and I was even deprived of the chance of rejoicing over his death, for I was obliged to pay his debts at the wine-shop. Then I became a cripple, and would starve were it not for you."

"You are unjust, godmother," observed Mariette, with a tender smile, trying to dispel her melancholy. "To my knowledge, you have had one happy day, at least, in your life."

"Which was that?"

"The day you gave me shelter, after my mother's death. Did not the good action give you satisfaction and make you happy for the day?"

"Well, if you call that a happy day—I want no more like it."

"Why?"

"It was rather one of my worst days!"

"Oh! godmother!" expostulated the girl sadly.

"Since my wretched husband's death, I had but myself to care for; but in taking charge of you, it was like being left a widow with a child to support. I call that anything but gay, when a woman can scarcely earn her own living. But you looked so charming with your pretty curly head and large blue eyes, and you seemed so sad kneeling beside your mother's coffin, that I had not the heart to let them take you to the asylum. And what a dreary night I spent, wondering what I would do with you, and what would become of you if work failed me! And you call that a happy day? No, no! Had I been in comfortable circumstances, I would have felt that your future was assured and been happy. But to merely exchange your misery for worse still was nothing to rejoice over."

"Well, let us say no more about days," said Mariette soothingly, smiling through her tears, "but let us speak of moments; for I am determined to show that you have experienced some happiness. Now, for instance, take this moment—"

"Well, what of it?"

"I am sure that you are happy to see that I have dried my tears, thanks to your kind words."

The sick woman shook her head sadly.

"Do you know what I think when I get over my bad humor?" she said, with a sigh. "Well, I think that you must hate me for my harshness and injustice toward you. And I deserve it, too."

"Now you are going back to your melancholy thoughts," said the girl reproachfully.

"Admit that I am right. It's only natural, after all. You kill yourself working for me, you feed and nurse me, and I repay you with harsh words only. My death would indeed be a relief to you; and the sooner I am laid in my coffin the better."

"I know you are jesting once more," rejoined Mariette, making an effort to smile, though her heart was full to bursting.

"Well, if I am only jesting, little one, don't look so grieved," returned the old woman, touched by the girl's evident distress. "Now put the milk on the fire, and bandage my arm while waiting for it to boil."

Mariette was as delighted over these orders as though they had been the kindest words in the world. She hastily lighted the fire; cut up their only remaining piece of bread into a dish of milk, placed it on the stove, and returned to the invalid.

In spite of the repugnance which the putrid sore inspired in her, Mariette showed as much patience as dexterity in cleansing and bandaging the mutilated arm; and the young girl's devotion, as well as her noble resignation, touched the woman's heart anew.

"Sisters of Charity are often praised, my dear," she said admiringly, "but none of them deserve half the praise you do."

"But those good sisters devote their time to strangers, godmother," protested the girl modestly, "while you are like a mother to me. I only do my duty, and therefore have no merit."

"Poor child, my affection for you brings you but little happiness. Only a few moments ago I made you burst into tears; and to-morrow will be the same as to-day."

To escape from a reply to these bitter words, Mariette brought the steaming milk, which the invalid drank with appetite, and then busied herself in making the bed more comfortable.

"What will you eat, Mariette?" asked the old woman, as she swallowed the last spoonful.

"Oh! I have had my breakfast," said the girl bravely. "I bought a small loaf of rye bread this morning and ate it on my way—there, now," giving a last shake to the pillow, "you must try to sleep, you had such a bad night—are you more comfortable now?"

"Yes, thank you, child."

"I shall take my work near the window; the room is dark and this is very delicate work."

"What is it?"

"A fine cambric chemise, godmother. Madame Jourdan trusted me with it only after many recommendations not to lose this magnificent Valencienne trimming, which alone is worth two hundred francs. This brings the cost to three hundred francs apiece, and there are two dozen to make. It seems they are intended for somebody's mistress," concluded the girl naÏvely.

The invalid burst into a sardonic laugh.

"What is it?" asked Mariette in surprise.

"Such a funny idea."

"Ah!" ejaculated Mariette, with a vague feeling of apprehension, for she knew only too well the habitual character of her godmother's jests. "What idea, godmother?"

"I was asking myself of what use such people as you and I are in this world—wretched creatures, who know nothing but the sorrows and miseries of life; do you know, child?"

"Indeed, godmother, I scarcely know what to say."

"Why should a respectable girl like you, who has but two or three ragged chemises to her name, earn the paltry sum of twenty sous per day sewing chemises worth three hundred francs apiece, for—" She burst into another bitter laugh, and turned her face to the wall, saying: "Take up your work courageously, child! I shall try to dream of cemeteries to cheer me up!"