"Monsieur—you have mistaken the room, I think," faltered Mignonne at last, in an uncertain voice. "You did not mean to come to my room; you came up too high."
"No, mademoi—no, madame; I think that I have not made a mistake. I am looking for Madame Landernoy; are not you she?"
"Yes, monsieur, that is my name. What do you want of me?"
Mignonne spoke in a short, sharp tone, which proved that my visit was not agreeable to her. I was still at the door, and she did not ask me to come in. Perhaps she did not wish me to see the wretched place she lived in, and, in truth, what I did see made my heart bleed, for, without entering, the whole room was visible. It was a tiny room, with no light except from a round hole in the sloping roof, the window being opened or closed by an iron bar, as it was so high as to be out of reach. So that she had no sight of anything but a little patch of sky when she raised her eyes to look out. There was no fireplace, but a small air-tight stove. A bed, a commode, a table, a small buffet, a water pail, and six chairs composed the poor girl's furniture. But everything was neatly arranged and spotlessly clean.
Evidently, in my inspection of the room, I forgot to answer the question she asked me, for it was repeated in a still more imperative tone:
"I asked you what you wanted, monsieur; for I don't know you."
"Oh! I beg pardon, madame! I came to ask you—I am told that you do very fine linen work, and I wanted—I had some work to give you to do, if you chose to undertake it."
"Who told you that I did linen work, monsieur?"
"Why—a lady—for whom you have worked."
"What is the lady's name?"