At this moment appeared Martine, the only servant, become the real
mistress of the house, after nearly thirty years of service with the
doctor. Although she had passed her sixtieth year, she, too, still
retained a youthful air as she went about, silent and active, in her
eternal black gown and white cap that gave her the look of a nun, with
her small, white, calm face, and lusterless eyes, the light in which
seemed to have been extinguished.

Without speaking, she went and sat down on the floor before an
easy-chair, through a rent in the old covering of which the hair was
escaping, and drawing from her pocket a needle and a skein of worsted,
she set to work to mend it. For three days past she had been waiting
for an hour's time to do this piece of mending, which haunted her.

"While you are about it, Martine," said Pascal jestingly, taking
between both his hands the mutinous head of Clotilde, "sew me fast,
too, this little noodle, which sometimes wanders off into the clouds."

Martine raised her pale eyes, and looked at her master with her
habitual air of adoration?"

"Why does monsieur say that?"

"Because, my good girl, in very truth, I believe it is you who have
stuffed this good little round, clear, strong headpiece full of
notions of the other world, with all your devoutness."

The two women exchanged a glance of intelligence.

"Oh, monsieur! religion has never done any harm to any one. And when