"Very much after the fashion of M. Bradamanti," said the porteress; "she lent a few sous upon their wretched clothes; every garment they had has passed into her hands, and even their last mattress; but they were not long coming to the last, for they never had but two."
"But she gave them no further aid?"
"Help them, poor creatures! Not she. Mother Burette is as great a brute in her way as her lover, M. Bras Rouge, is in his; for between you and I," added the porteress, with an uncommonly knowing wink of the eye and sagacious shake of the head, "there is something rather tender going on between these two."
"Really!" cried Rodolph.
"I think so,—I do, upon my life. And why not? Why, the folks in St. Martin are as loving as the rest of the world; are they not, my old pet?"
A melancholy shake of the head, which produced a corresponding motion in the huge black hat, was M. Pipelet's only answer. As for Madame Pipelet, since she had begun expressing sympathy for the poor sufferers in the attics, her countenance had ceased to strike Rodolph as repulsive, and he even thought it wore an agreeable expression.
"And what is this poor Morel's trade?"
"A maker of false jewelry; he works by the piece; but, dear me! that sort of work is so much imitated, and so cheaply got up that—For a man can but work his best, and he cannot do more than he can; besides, when you have got to find bread for seven persons without reckoning yourself, it is rather a hard job, I take it. And though his eldest daughter does her best to assist the family, she has but very little in her power."
"How old is this daughter?"
"About eighteen, and as lovely a young creature as you would see in a long summer's day. She lives as servant with an old miserly fellow, rich enough to buy and sell half Paris,—a notary, named M. Jacques Ferrand."