When Madame Caraman turned around she saw Clary, pale, but with a pair of beaming eyes, standing at the entrance of the room, and in her tiny white hand the yet smoking pistol.
The servants rushed in—the wounded were made prisoners, and Madame Caraman had to thank Clary with tears in her eyes for her assistance.
"Well, for one already half dead you certainly possess a great deal of strength and energy," she said afterward, with cunning look; "only courage, dear child—we will soon see who is in the right."
Clary was, to all appearance, from this day continually becoming more cheerful, and her strength increased gradually. It is no wonder that sometimes she still clung to her painful ideas, and thought it not worth while to live, while Madame Caraman tried hard to teach her better principles.
"You must have some kind of occupation," she said; "you must give your life some aim, some purpose."
"But how? Nobody stands in need of me," sobbed Clary.
"Oh, that is only your own belief, but it is not so. There is much sorrow and misery in the world, but in large and fine streets you cannot meet with it, and only in narrow streets and lanes and alleys can you find it. I am, for instance, a native of Paris, and I know that in the beautiful town every day many die of hunger, if not in the Rue de la Paix and on the Boulevard des Italiens."
"Alas," sobbed Clary; "if I could help them!"
"And why should it be impossible?" said Madame Caraman, in an amiable voice; "misery is easily found—one must only look for it."
"Madame Caraman, I should like to call you Mamma Caraman; will you allow me?"