Tremblingly the girl obeyed. Monsieur Frossard was propped up in bed, a skull cap on his head, and a cigar in his mouth. Around him was the debris of his evening meal, the carcase of a lobster, some bones of frog-legs, and a half finished bottle of champagne. As she approached she was conscious of a strange odour of decay. The old man looked at her, licking his little slimy lips while a score of flies buzzed and settled around him. The pink cotton wool was still in his ears. She wondered if there was any connection between the cotton wool and the flies. An odd revulsion seized her, yet she continued to approach with the fruit.
“Tiens! it’s the little girl I found in the forest. What’s your name?”
“Margot, Sir.”
“Come here, Margot, close to me. Let me offer you a peach.”
The girl, standing with her head bent, refused.
“Ah! you are too timid. We must cure you of that.”
He put out one of his pudgy hands and took hold of a long bright strand of her hair. The girl raised her startled blue eyes. The hand on her shining hair made her think of a toad. She shuddered. The old man’s face changed; it became hard and cruel.
“Go away,” he said harshly. “I will see you to-morrow.”
Next morning Madame Mangepain said to her:
“The Master wants to see you in the studio.”