"So this is Fouchette, eh?" said the white-faced woman, as her companion joined her with the child and her little bundle.
"Yes, madame," faltered Fouchette.
But for the eyes, which were large and dark and luminous, and which seemed to grasp the object upon which they rested and to hold it in physical embrace, the face might have been that of the dead, so ghastly and rigid and unnatural it was.
"She's not much, very sure," observed the other, turning Fouchette around by the slender shoulder.
"She'll never earn her salt," said the pale-faced sister.
Fouchette noticed that her lips were apparently bloodless and that she scarcely moved them as she spoke.
"Not for long, anyhow," responded the other, with a significance Fouchette did not then understand.
Without other preliminary they led Fouchette down the platform.
"Where's your ticket?" asked the white-faced woman, coldly.
Fouchette nervously searched the bosom of her dress. In France the railway ticket is surrendered at the point where the journey ceases, as the traveller leaves the station platform.