Chapter 10 - Page 2

value rendered restitution necessary, she would profess to think that DA©sirA©e had taken it away in play, and beg her to restore it. DA©sirA©e was not to be so cheated: she had learned to bring falsehood to the aid of theft, and would deny having touched the brooch, ring, or scissors. Carrying on the hollow system, the mother would calmly assume an air of belief and afterwards, ceaselessly watch and dog the child till she tracked her to her hiding-places - some hole in the garden- wall - some chink or cranny in garret or out-house. This done, madame would send DA©sirA©e out for a walk with her bonne, and profit by her absence to rob the robber. DA©sirA©e proved herself the true daughter of her astute parent, by never suffering either her countenance or manner to betray the least sign of mortification on discovering the loss.

The second child, Fifine, was said to be like its dead father. Certainly though the mother had given it her healthy frame, her blue eye and ruddy cheek, not from her was derived its moral being. It was an honest, gleeful little soul: a passionate, warm-tempered, bustling creature it was too, and of the sort likely to blunder often into perils and difficulties. One day it bethought itself to fall from top to bottom of a steep flight of stone steps; and when madame, hearing the noise (she always heard every noise), issued from the salle A  manger and picked it up, she said quietly -

'Cet enfant a un os de cassA©.'

At first we hoped this was not the case. It was, however, but too true: one little plump arm hung powerless.

'Let Meess' (meaning me) 'take her', said Madame; 'et qu'on aille tout de suite chercher un fiacre.'

In a fiacre she promptly, but with admirable coolness and self- possession, departed to fetch a surgeon.

It appeared she did not find the family surgeon at home; but that mattered not: she sought until she laid her hand on a substitute to her mind, and brought him back with her. Meantime I had cut the child's sleeve from its arm, undressed and put it to bed.

We none of us, I suppose (by we I mean the bonne, the cook, the portress, and myself, all which personages were now gathered in the small and heated chamber), looked very scrutinisingly at the new doctor when he came into the room. I, at least, was taken up with endeavouring to soothe Fifine, whose cries (for she had good lungs), were appalling to hear. These cries redoubled in intensity as the stranger approached her bed; when he took her up, 'Let alone!' she cried passionately, in her broken English (for she spoke English as did the other children). 'I will not you: I will Dr. Pillule!'

'And Dr. Pillule is my very good friend', was the answer, in perfect English; 'but he is busy at a place three leagues off; and I am come in his stead. So now, when we get a little calmer, we must commence business; and we will soon have