Madame's voice, now in full and customary volume, expressed frankly her goodness. "We have five children and our means are modest, but"—and she put it sublimely—"one is not a mother for nothing."
Her tirade, however, was quite lost on Bulstrode, who was occupied with his own projects of benevolence. Turning to this contingent of the hôtel meublé a back scarcely more imperturbable than his face had been, he went out of the room to the terrace, where Simone sat just as he had left her. She was, on her low chair, so tiny that in order more nearly than ever before to approach her little point of view, to come into her little sphere, Bulstrode knelt down on one knee.
"Don't look so frightened, my child. Nothing will harm you—I assure you of that; don't you"—he called her loyally to answer—"don't you believe me, Simone?"
The little thing drew in a struggling breath and whispered: "Oui, m'sieu."
"Good!" He was smiling at her and had taken her ice-cold, dirty, little hands. "You are fond of me, Simone—you like a little M'sieu Balstro'?"
"Oh," she caught at her frightened voice and more clearly whispered, "oh, oui, m'sieu!"
"Bien encore!"
He wanted tactfully to break the ice which shock and terror had formed around the poor little heart, and yet not to prolong the moment.
"Voyons," he said to her lightly, as if he were only to bid her come and play in his garden, and not ask her to decide her destiny. "Voyons, how would you like to come and live with me? to have toys and pretty clothes and good things to eat—to be"—the bachelor put it bravely—"to be my little girl. How, Simone, would you like it?"
If further startled she was humanized by his warmth, which was melting her; her breast heaved, her lips trembled, and she asked: "Et puis—maman?"