"The gaoler has a tribe of children," said Mme de Labédoyère eagerly. "I have a little money. If I made him a present he would send us one."
"It must be a young child, under seven years old."
"But why?"
"The eyes, Madame, must be clear. With conscious sin, with the first touch of sorrow, the first breath of passion, there comes a mist, and the visions are read no longer."
"Well, there are children enough," she answered with a shrug. "I have seen a little girl of about five,—Marie, I think she is called: we will ask for her."
Almost as she spoke the door was thrown open and the gaoler entered. He brought another prisoner to share the already crowded room. If Paris streets were silent and empty, her prisons were full enough. This was a pale slip of a girl, with a pitiful hacking cough. She entered listlessly, and sank down in a corner as if she had not strength to stand.
"The end of the journey," said Aristide under his breath, but Mme de Labédoyère was by the gaoler's side talking volubly.
"It is only for an hour,—and see—" here something slipped from her hand to his. "It will be a diversion for the child, and for us, mon Dieu, it may save our lives! How would you feel if you were to find us all dead one morning just from sheer ennui?"
"I don't know that I should fret," said the man with a grin, and Mme de Labédoyère bit her lip.
"But you will lend us Marie," she said insistently.