“I am sure of it also, if she is your sister, Monsieur,” she answered softly.
“How does it happen that you are here?” I asked, vaguely troubled by the tone of her voice. “Where is Mère Fouchon?”
“She went away just now, and as she said she was going to the Rue des Moulins she cannot be back for an hour at least.”
“To the Rue des Moulins?” I cried. “Oh, I must escape!” and I sprang to my feet and tugged at my chain in an ecstasy of rage. “Ninon,” I said suddenly, “could you not step into the street and say two words to a gendarme about my being here?”
“Alas, Monsieur,” she answered, “I am as much a prisoner as yourself. Mère Fouchon always locks me in when she leaves the house.”
I groaned aloud and could hear her sobbing.
“Come,” I said, mastering myself at the end of a moment, “this will not do. We must be brave. Cease crying, Ninon, and sit here beside me.”
She did as I bade, and as I passed my arm about her and drew her to me, I felt her body trembling and shaken by sobs. My lips quivered with pity as I perceived how thin she was.
“Now,” I said, “we are comfortable. Place your head against my shoulder—so. How old are you, Ninon?”
“I do not know, Monsieur.”