"Not just yet, Poucette," I replied. "Tell me something about yourself first, and eat more walnuts."
She looked up sharply at this, as if to say, What business is that of yours? then away into the fire, which was evidently a novel luxury to her; and finally her glance rested on Mouton, who, having devoured every superfluous piece of meat, and gnawed the only bone at table, had now stretched himself on the hearth-rug, and slumbered peacefully at her feet. "Monsieur is very good," she said presently, with a sigh, still with her eyes fixed on Mouton. "My history is nothing very great. I am not a Parisian; my father was a Norman."
"Is he alive now?" I asked, as she paused here.
"I don't know about that," she answered haughtily. "He was a wicked man. Monsieur understands me?" she said questioningly, with a piercing look.
"Yes, poor child. And your mother, what of her?"
"She is an angel," faltered the girl. "She went up to heaven last Christmas;" and the tears filled her eyes as she said it.
"How have you lived since?'
"Oh, that was at Marseilles; and I came on here with Mouton. We dance," she continued in a firmer voice; "we go out with a man called Emile, who plays the organ very well, and he has another dog like Mouton,' only not at all clever: the stupid creature can only hold a basket in his mouth, and beg for sous; he has no talent." She shrugged her shoulders, and continued, "We live with Emile and his wife; they are not always kind to me; but I love Jean."
"Who is this Jean?" I asked.