“Yes—sometimes.”
“Why doesn’t she ever bring anything to our house?”
“We live too far away; and, besides, we are too poor.”
“Then, she brings them only to rich children! Why? I—I’d love to have some playthings.”
“Ah, well! Some day—if you are quite good—if you go to sleep nicely—perhaps she will bring you some.”
“All right—I’m going to sleep—so that she’ll bring me some to-morrow.”
Silence. Then regular and gentle breathing. The child had fallen asleep, and the mother too. Only la Bretonne did not sleep. An emotion both poignant and tender wrung her heart, and she thought more fixedly than ever of that little one whom long ago she had stifled. This lasted until the first gleams of dawn.
At early daylight la Fleuriotte and her child still slept. La Bretonne furtively glided out of the house, and, walking hastily in the direction of Auberive, did not pause until she reached the first houses. Once there, she again passed slowly up the single street, scanning the signs of the shops. At last one of these seemed to fix her attention. She rapped upon the window-shutter, and by and by it was opened. It was a dry-goods shop, but they also had some children’s playthings—poor shopworn toys—paper dolls, a Noah’s ark, a sheep-fold. To the great amazement of the shopkeeper, la Bretonne bought them all, paid, and went out.
She was again on the road to la Fleuriotte’s hovel when a hand was laid heavily on her shoulder. Tremblingly she turned and found herself facing a corporal of gensdarmes. The unhappy woman had forgotten that convicts were not permitted after their release to remain in the neighborhood of the prison!
“Instead of loafing here, you should be already at Langres,” said the corporal severely. “Go along—on your way!”