“Listen to me,” she said, in a sharp, clear tone. “I have never whipped you, mon enfant, but if you say one word of this attic to Jehan, Pierre, Manchette, or any one else, I will surely whip you, Péron, and you shall have no dinner; neither shall you go to the Rue des Petits Champs;—do you understand me, eh?”
Péron looked up at her red face and his childish courage quaked; but he was a proud child, and he inwardly resolved that he would never bear a blow—he would run away first.
“Why do you not speak?” she cried angrily; “you hear me, enfant!”
“I will not tell, madame,” the boy answered gravely, “but you will not whip me!”
She let go of him, amazed at the look on his face, an expression of almost shame coming over hers. She knelt down on the garret floor and kissed the child’s hand, the picture of humility.
“I beg your pardon, monsieur,” she said, tears in her voice; “you are right, I will not whip you.”
There were tears in her eyes also. A moment later she rose, and brushed the moisture from her eyelashes with the back of her broad, strong hand.
“I am an old fool!” she said, giving the boy a push toward the ladder; “go away, mon enfant, there is nothing here but some old chests, old clothes, and old hopes!”
At this moment her eyes fell on the form of M. de Turenne, who was sitting placidly at the top of the ladder, licking his gray fur, the end of his tail moving in a charmed circle.
“Scat!” she cried, stamping her feet, “between the cat and the child I shall go mad,” and she drove them both down the ladder and slammed down the door after them.