A very fat woman was coming down the street,—the fattest woman Mlle de Rochambeau had ever seen, yes, fatter even than Sister Josèphe, she considered, with that mechanical detachment of thought which is so often the accompaniment of great mental distress.
She wore a striped petticoat and a gaily flowered gown, the sleeves of which were rolled up to display a pair of huge brown arms. She had a very broad, sallow face, and little pig's eyes sunk deep in rolls of crinkled flesh. Aline gazed at her, fascinated, and the woman returned the look. In truth, Mlle de Rochambeau, with her rose-wreathed hair, her delicate muslin dress, her fichu trimmed with the finest Valenciennes lace, her thin stockings and modish white silk shoes, was a sufficiently arresting figure, when one considered the hour and the place. The fat woman hesitated a moment, and in that moment Mademoiselle spoke.
"Madame——"
It was the most hesitating essay at speech, but the woman stopped and swung her immense body round until she faced the girl.
"Eh bien, Ma'mselle," she said in a thick, drawling voice.
Mademoiselle moistened her dry lips and tried again.
"Madame—I do not know—can you tell me,—oh! you look kind, can you tell me what to do?"
"What to do, Ma'mselle?"
"Oh yes, Madame, and—and where to go?"
"Where to go, Ma'mselle?"