"Not now," interposed the latter,—"a little later. I want a word or two with you, Madeleine, first. Just two minutes!"
The one brilliant orb regarded the girl intently, as if it would dive into her soul; but the habitual good-nature yielded.
"Very well. Come then, chérie,—à l'impériale!"
And, indeed, the narrow, spiral stair more closely resembled that which leads to the impériale of the Paris omnibus than anything found in the modern house.
The space above was divided in four, the first part being the small antechamber, dimly lighted from the roof, which they now entered. Through a door to the right they were in a room one-third of which was already occupied by an iron camp-bed. The rest of the furniture consisted of a little iron washstand, a chair, and some sort of a box covered with very much soiled chintz that was once pretty. Above this latter article of furniture was a small shelf, on which were coquettishly arranged a folding mirror and other cheap articles of toilet. A few fans of the cheap Japanesque variety were pinned here and there in painful regularity. A cheap holiday skirt and other feminine belongings hung on the wall over the cot. In the small, square, recessed window opening on Rue Mouffetard were pots of flowering plants that gave an air of refinement and comfort to a place otherwise cheerless and miserable.
And over all of this poverty and wretchedness hung a blackened ceiling so low that the feather of Mlle. Fouchette swept it,—so low and dark and heavy and lugubrious that it seemed to threaten momentarily to crush out what little human life and happiness remained there.
Madeleine silently motioned her visitor to the chair and threw herself on the creaking bed. She waited, suspiciously.
"The riots, you know, Madeleine," began Mlle. Fouchette.
"Dame! There is always rioting. One hears, but one doesn't mind."
"Unless one has friends, Madeleine——"