About eight o'clock in the evening, Violette was installed in Roncherolle's room; he had been dozing for some time, and when he woke, his eyes met those of the young girl, who, as she mended her neighbor's linen, glanced at him often to see if he were asleep.
"Really, my dear child," said Roncherolle, "your kindness to me fills me with gratitude, and reconciles me to your sex; for, if I must admit it, I had but a very slight esteem for women."
"Why so, monsieur? have they injured you?"
"Not exactly; but they are responsible for my having injured others, and that amounts to the same thing."
"Why no, monsieur, if they didn't advise you to do it."
"They do not need to advise us to make fools of ourselves; they lead us into it easily enough without that."
"I don't understand, monsieur."
"So much the better for you, my child.—But what are you doing there? God forgive me, I believe that you are patching my rags!"
"Well! I had nothing to do, and I like to be busy; I thought that it wouldn't offend you if I should take a few stitches in your linen."
"Offend me! ah! my dear girl, you are too kind to me; one does not take offence with those who are so kind to them. Ah me! when I think——"