"Certainly."
"Well, then, take La Goualeuse when she leaves St. Lazare; she is the very thing for you, as if we had made her on purpose. For she was about six years of age when that scamp, Jacques Ferrand (and it's now ten years ago), gave her to me with a thousand francs, in order to get rid of her,—that is to say, it was Tournemine, who is now at the galleys at Rochefort, who brought her to me, saying there was no doubt she was some child they wanted to get rid of or pass off for dead."
"Jacques Ferrand, do you say?" exclaimed Sarah, in a voice so choked that the Chouette receded several paces. "The notary, Jacques Ferrand, gave you this child—and—?" She could not finish, her emotion was too violent; and with her two clasped hands extended towards the Chouette, she trembled convulsively, surprise and joy agitating her features.
"I don't know what it is that makes you so much in earnest, my good lady," replied the old hag; "but it is a very simple story. Ten years ago Tournemine, an old pal of mine, said to me: 'Have you a mind to take charge of a little girl that they want to get out of the way? No matter whether she slips her wind or not. There's a thousand francs for the job, and do what you like with the 'kinchin.'"
"Ten years ago?" cried Sarah.
"Ten years."
"A little fair girl?"
"A little fair girl."
"With blue eyes?"
"Blue eyes—as blue as blue bells."