—Hello, folks! I'm Maurice's friend.
Well! You should have seen the poor old soul come with open-arms to hug me, and shake my hand, and pace wildly round the room, going:
—My God! My God!…
His wrinkled face broke into deep creases of laughter. He flushed and stuttered:
—Oh, monsieur… Oh, monsieur!…
Then he went to the back of the room and called out for:
—Mamette!
A door opened; a mouse-like scurrying was heard in the passage … and there she stood, Mamette, as pretty as a picture in her shell-like bonnet, her nun-like habit, and her embroidered hanky, which she held in the respectful, old-fashioned way…. It was so touching; they looked completely alike. With his hair done up and yellow shells, he could have been another Mamette, except that the real one must have cried a lot in her life, as she was even more wrinkled than he. She, too, had a girl carer from the orphanage, a little nurse, dressed in a blue cape, who never left her side. To see these old folks, cared for by the orphans, was unimaginably moving.
Mamette began by addressing me rather too formerly, but the old fellow cut her off mid-stream:
—He's Maurice's friend….